Music    Ub. 


410 
MIP9 


Putn£un 

Edward  Mac Do well 
Reminiscences  and  Romance 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


I 

and 

^ammtt 


S^ataiir  Albrn  Putnam 


SnmanrF 


Nalaltp  Klhnx  J^utnam 


COPYRIGHT    1919 
By  The  Author 


Music 
Library 

HL. 


Co 

foJjn 

ISelobtb  £)on  anli  fHusit  Companion 

September  27.  1896 
auBUSt  21.  1916 

"In  this  old  World  of  love  and  joy  and  tears, 
God  measurei  us  by  deeds  and  not  tj)  i)ears.  " 

—Arthur  Dillon. 


1219991 


PREFACE 

TO  THE  READER  :- 

This  booklet  is  the  first  of  a  series.  It  claims 
nothing  more  than  an  attempt  to  arouse  greater  interest 
among  music  students  and  music  lovers  in  the  music 
of  our  greatest  American  composer,  Edward  Mac- 
Dowell. 

I  make  but  one  request.  Please  "try  over  on  your 
piano"  the  compositions  of  his  which  I  have  named. 

The  second  booklet  will  relate  impressions  of  Peter- 
borough, as  it  is  today,  gained  by  a  summer's  personal 
sojourn  there.  It  will  also  include  "storied  or  pic- 
torialed"  interpretations  of  a  dozen  or  more  of  Mac- 
Dowell's  New  England  "nature-music"  sketches. 

The  third  booklet  will  present  a  more  serious  and 
comprehensive  summary  of  MacDowell  as  a  teacher, 
some  characteristic  qualities  of  his  music,  helpful  sug- 
gestions for  its  study,  to  the  amateur  pianist  or  music 
student.    These  last  two  books  will  soon  be  published. 

Very  sincerely, 

MRS.  GRAHAM  F.  PUTNAM. 
(Pupil  of  Edward  MacDowell.) 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2008  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/edwardmacdowellrOOputn 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 
REMINISCENSES  OF  EDWARD  MacDOWELL 


PART  II 

ROMANCE 

Page 

Prologue 36 

Romanza 41 

Lover 49 

Sweetheart 49 

An  Old  Love  Story 52 

A  Deserted  Farm 59 

From  a  Log  Cabin 64 

By  Smouldering  Embers 65 

Epilogue 66 


REMINISCENCES 

The  following  reminiscences  of  Mr.  MacDowell  are 
simply  a  few  of  my  own  experiences  with  him  during 
an  acquaintance  bearing  the  relationship  of  teacher 
and  pupil.  Will  the  reader  therefore  kindly  overlook 
the  constant  repetition  of  the  first  personal  pronoun, 
as  its  use  seems  unavoidable.  Some  years  ago  I 
needed  a  music  teacher.  There  was  nothing  unusual 
about  such  a  need,  but  the  teacher  I  required  must  be 
unusual.  All  my  life  practically  had  been  devoted  to 
music  either  as  a  student  or  teacher.  My  musical 
instruction  had  been  most  thorough  and  always  the 
best  obtainable.  None  other  was  ever,  I  am  thankful 
to  say,  allowed  me.  Besides  I  had  had  years  of  teaching 
experience.  Consequently  my  need  was  not  a  pre- 
paratory need,  but  one  much  greater.  For  a  few  years 
just  preceding,  I  had  been  out  of  active  music  work  and 
desired  to  resume  it.  So  I  wished,  first  of  all,  for  some 
one  with  mentality  enough  to  understand  and  appreciate 
the  situation ;  one  who  would  sympathize  with  my  hopes, 
and  aid  me  in  finding  and  picking  up  the  lost  stitches; 
one  who  would  bridge  over  the  gap  and  reconstruct  as 
completely  as  possible  without  tearing  out  and  destroy- 
ing former  labor  and  accompHshment.  In  fact  I  wanted 
a  real  teacher,  one  who  taught  the  pupil,  not  merely  a 
method.     But  where  was  I  to  find  my  ideal? 

At  that  time  my  home  was  in  the  far  middle  west 
so  my  search  was  perforce  directed  eastward.  After 
much  careful  investigation  my  decision  had  almost 
been  reached,  tho  not  entirely  to  my  satisfaction,  when 
fate  kindly  intervened  in  the  form  of  a  chance  meeting 
with  a  fellow  musician  just  returned  from  New  York. 
Consulting  her  in  my  perplexity,  she  immediately  with 
unrestrained  enthusiasm  urged  me  to  go  to  Edward 
MacDowell,  and  gave  me  such  a  glowing  account  of 
him  as  a  teacher  that  I  instinctively  felt  my  search  was 
over 

—9— 


This  was  about  the  year  1900.  The  musician  of 
today  may  be  surprised  when  told  that  MacDowell  was 
then  practically  unknown  as  far  west  as  I  was  living 
and  I,  as  well  informed  probably  as  anyone  in  our  city, 
knew  scarcely  an)rthing  about  him  or  his  music.  This 
friend,  a  brilliant  pianist,  had  been  in  New  York  on  a 
visit  and  learning  of  course  of  MacDowell's  prestige  had 
immediately  taken  advantage  of  a  great  opportunity 
and  become  his  pupil.  As  a  result  of  our  conversation 
I  at  once  began  a  correspondence  with  Mr.  MacDowell 
and  eventually  decided  to  take  a  chance,  and  indeed  it 
was  quite  that  as  can  be  seen  from  the  following  ex- 
cerpt taken  from  one  of  the  letters  I  received  containing 
various  requested  information. 

381  Central  Park  W.,  Jan.  16. 
"My  dear  Madam: 

In  answer  to  your  letter  I  beg  to  say  that  probably 
there  would  be  no  reason  why  I  could  not  give  you  the 
desired  lessons.  At  the  same  time  it  would  be  necessary 
for  me  to  hear  you  play  before  absolutely  PROMISING 
you.  This  is  a  rule  I  always  keep  to  but  in  your  case 
*****  Should  you  desire  it  I  would  appoint  a 
time  to  hear  you  play  as  soon  as  you  might  arrive." 
I  remain, 
Truly  yours, 

Edward  MacDowell. 

In  fear  and  trembling  at  the  thought  of  that  terri- 
fying ordeal  ahead  of  me  suggested  by  the  wor!s  "It 
would  be  necessary  for  me  to  hear  you  play,"  I  plucked 
up  courage  to  take  the  long  wearisome  journey  across 
the  country  and  learn  my  fate. 

There  formerly  existed  the  idea  that  because  Mac- 
Dowell was  head  of  the  department  of  music  in  Columbia 
he  taught  piano  there.  To  my  own  certain  knowledge 
this  idea  still  quite  generally  prevails  tho  most  erroneous- 
ly.    More   than  once   in  announcing  my  intention  to 

—10— 


study  with  him  if  permitted,  some  musician  friend 
would  remonstrate  remarking,  "Why  go  to  MacDowell, 
anybody  can  get  lessons  from  him  by  just  joining  his 
music  school!"  As  I  had  not  then  authentic  informa- 
tion to  contradict  I  could  only  answer,  "I  do  not  believe 
it.  A  man  who  has  arrived  as  MacDowell  has  can 
assuredly  choose  his  pupils."  So  upon  my  arrival  in 
New  York  I  immediately  made  inquiries  and  found  that 
MacDowell  did  no  piano  teaching  at  all  in  the  college, 
that  his  piano  pupils  v/ere  strictly  private  pupils  and 
their  lessons  were  always  given  in  his  own  home.  His 
work  at  Columbia  consisted  of  lectures,  their  aim  being; 
"First,  to  teach  music  scientifically  and  technically  with 
a  view  to  training  musicians  who  shall  be  competent 
to  teach  and  compose.  Second ;  to  treat  music  historical- 
ly and  aesthetically  as  an  element  of  Uberal  culture." 
Did  it  not  seem  a  terrible  calamity  that  so  broad  a 
vision  was  doomed  to  disapprobation.  MacDowell  but 
lived  ahead  of  his  age,  his  prophetic  foresight  is  now 
becoming  clearly  visible  to  many  others.  Have  you 
all  read  "Critical  and  Historical  Essays?"  This  book 
was  published  after  his  death  and  is  a  compilation  of 
the  portion  of  his  lectures  preserved.  It  is  a  most 
illuminating  exposition  of  his  ideas  and  extremely 
valuable  from  an  educational  view  point.  The  re- 
markable versatility  and  intellectuaUty  of  MacDowell 
will  surprise  many  who  think  of  him  as  a  musician  only, 
and  do  not  realize  his  scholarly  attainments. 

There  is  always  an  exception  to  prove  a  rule.  I 
might  state  there  was  one  time,  and  one  time  only, 
when  MacDowell  gave  his  private  pupils  their  lessons 
at  Columbia  and  it  occurred  while  I  was  studying  with 
him.  One  morning  the  mail  brought  me  a  little  note 
with  the  request  that  I  please  go  to  the  College  for  my 
next  lesson  and,  with  the  customary  consideration 
always   shown   by   both   MacDowell   and   his   faithful 

— u— 


amanuensis  M.  M.  (Marian  MacDowell),  it  also  in- 
cluded minute  directions  for  finding  South  Hall.  A 
case  of  small  pox  had  suddenly  appeared,  some  quar- 
antine restrictions  had  been  placed  upon  the  occupants 
of  his  building  and  MacDowell  had  undergone,  so  I 
was  told,  a  precautionary  operation  along  in  the  wee 
small  hours  of  the  night  before,  more  for  the  sake  of 
safety  to  others  than  for  his  own.  So  for  the  length 
of  two  weeks  MacDowell  did  give  piano  lessons  at 
Columbia! 

According  to  promise  the  date  of  my  tryout  was 
quickly  arranged  for  after  my  arrival.  The  interview 
was  dreaded  probably  by  both  of  us,  by  him  because  he 
disUked  meeting  prospective  pupils,  an  extra  drain 
upon  his  time  and  strength,  and  by  me  for  fear  of  the 
outcome.  As  the  appointed  hour  approached  I  wended 
my  way  to  his  apartment  which  faced  Central  Park 
and  commanded  as  much  view  of  nature  as  the  congested 
metropolis  afforded.  After  loitering  around  the  en- 
trance as  long  as  I  dared  without  arousing  suspicion 
I  finally  forced  myself  to  enter  and  ask  the  elevator  boy 
if  Mr.  MacDowell  Hved  there.  Until  he  answered  in 
the  affirmative  I  did  not  realize  how  much  I  was  in- 
wardly hoping  I  had  made  a  mistake  and  that  there 
was  still  a  chance  for  me  to  escape.  But  no!  With 
heartless  alacrity  the  elevator  door  was  thrown  open, 
I  was  ushered  in  and  whirled  to  the  top  floor  with  no 
waste  of  time  in  quite  characteristic  New  York  "step- 
lively"  fashion.  However,  in  that  rapid  rise  I  fully 
sensed,  I  think,  the  insignificance  of  such  a  one  as  I  and 
my  troubles  in  that  city's  immense  rushing  stream  of 
humanity,  and  realized  the  magnificence  of  the  success- 
ful struggle  of  pushing  thro  the  crowd,  in  gigantic 
stride  outstripping  all  competitors.  In  those  few 
momentous  seconds  I  seemed  to  feel  intuitively  before 
ever  seeing  him  the  potency  of  MacDov/ell  and  that  I 

—12— 


was  soon  to  meet  a  truly  great  man.  Of  course  these 
reflections  did  not  make  life  any  easier  for  me  and  just 
at  that  moment  I  wanted  nothing  more  than  to  ride  right 
down  again.  No  encouragement  to  do  so  was  offered 
me.  Instead  I  was  silently  invited  out  as  I  hesitated  to 
take  the  fatal  step  and  nearly  expired  of  heart  failure 
when  the  elevator  boy  called  out  "There's  Mr.  Mac- 
Dowell's  door  bell."  Just  as  if  it  was  an  ordinary  bell 
too  and  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world  to  press  your 
finger  upon  it !  Why !  It  was  one  of  the  hardest  things 
I  ever  did  in  my  life!  You  know  a  regular  rhythm 
repeated  o'er  and  o'er  is  very  effective  at  times.  So  I 
found  myself  saying  again  and  again,  "Faint  heart  ne'er 
won  great  teacher,"  and  the  foolish  words  did  help. 

What  a  comfort  it  would  have  been  to  me  had  I 
only  known  then  of  MacDowell's  own  experience,  many 
years  before,  of  a  similar  nerve  test,  when  he  went  for 
his  first  interview  with  the  great  European  master 
Liszt.  He  too  wandered  back  and  forth  and  all  around 
the  entrance  screwing  up  courage  to  enter;  he  likewise 
feared  to  face  his  fate  and  was  similarly  unaware  of 
the  good  fortune  awaiting  him  within  the  coveted  place. 
How  deeply  human  all  truly  great  people  are!  Liszt 
received  the  talented  composer  with  the  greatest 
cordiality  and  gave  him  inspiration  v/hich  lasted  the 
rest  of  his  life.  How  many  bridges  I  had  crossed 
before  crossing  MacDowell's  threshold  and  how  use- 
lessly! My  first  glimpse  of  this  wonderful  artist  will 
always  remain  in  my  memory.  And  to  think  I  had 
dreaded  it  so ! 

Always  in  the  choice  of  a  teacher  I  had  found  certain 
traits  of  personality  absolutely  essential  to  my  best 
development.  An  instant's  scrutiny  of  MacDowell 
firmly  convinced  me  he  possessed  them  and  I  mentally 
resolved  that  nothing  must  prevent  my  becoming  his 

—13— 


pupil.  He  had  evidently  been  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room  giving  a  lesson  for,  as  I  was  shown  in,  he  turned 
and  walked  towards  me. 

Eyes  are  ever  the  first  feature  to  attract  my  interest. 
The  eyes  of  MacDowell  were  the  kind  that  are  never 
forgotten.  They  were  blue,  a  luminous  deepest  blue, 
humourously  kind,  yet  keenly  penetrating.  They  seemed 
to  look  first  at  me,  kindly  'tis  true,  then  thro  me,  most 
searchingly,  and  finally  beyond  me  and  I  knew  his 
judgment  of  me  had  been  made.  I  tried  bravely  to 
respond  to  the  first  glance;  during  the  second  I  felt 
my  stature  perceptibly  diminish  and  the  last  glance 
almost  compelled  me  to  look  behind  and  see  the  "writ- 
ing on  the  wall."  Eyes  are  the  windows  of  the  soul, 
and  disclose  all  its  secrets.  The  scars  of  his  own  trag- 
edies were  plainly  traceable  in  the  tinge  of  indefinable 
haunting  gaze.  But  it  contained  only  much  sweetness, 
gave  out  no  bitterness.  His  eyes  betokened  the  practise 
of  his  life,  the  aim  to  help  others,  and  which  he  expressed 
in  these  words.  **After  all  the  only  thing  is  to  be  as 
useful  as  we  can." 

Of  one  thing  I  was  very  sure;  he  had  learned  to 
read  and  understand  the  human  heart.  None  knew 
better  than  MacDowell,  "How  empty  learning  and  how 
vain  is  art,  but  as  it  mends  the  life  and  guides  the  heart." 
Some  critic  has  said  that  "MacDowell's  purity  of 
character  means  more  to  us  than  even  his  genius." 
All  people  know  our  greatest  composer's  life  was  as 
noble  and  sweet  as  his  music.  It  could  hardly  have 
been  otherwise  for  he  lived  in  such  intimate  com- 
munion with  nature  and  his  heart  eternally  called  him 
"back  to  the  more  of  earth,  the  less  of  man."  There 
is  no  truer  sentiment  than  this  "To  be  a  true  artist  one 
must  be  a  true  man."  In  the  mirror  of  those  deep  blue 
eyes  was  reflected  clearly  the  spirituahty  of  the  man. 

—14— 


His  life  was  steeped  in  many  colors.  It  was  not  all 
golden  sunlight  and  azure  sky.  Sometimes  the  gray 
gloom  of  night  and  black  cloud  of  despair  darkened  his 
horizon.  Then  the  glad  light  turned  to  sad  light  but 
he  never  lost  the  power  to  look  at  life  with  "child  eyes." 

Next  to  his  eyes  MacDowell's  most  attractive  feature 
was  his  winning  smile.  I  rarely  heard  him  genuinely 
laugh,  for  I  knew  him  during  days  of  trials,  but  when 
he  did  the  sound  of  it  was  a  veritable  chuckle  of  com- 
pressed fun  and  most  infectious.  MacDowell  must 
often  have  thanked  his  Celtic  ancestry  for  his  gift  of 
humour,  without  the  saving  grace  of  which  he  could 
not  have  vanquished  as  easily  as  he  did  almost  un- 
conquerable obstacles,  or  survived  them  as  long  as  he 
did.  But  the  sm.ile  I  later  knew  and  loved  the  best 
was  the  smile  of  the  eyes.  The  roguish  twinkle  that 
sparkled  there,  alas  too  seldom,  was  a  real  deUght 
contrasted  as  it  was  with  remaining  features  perfectly 
serious  and  decorously  posed.  Smiling  eyes  are  rarely 
seen;  their  possession  betokens  a  lovable  character. 

Admirers  of  MacDowell  universally  agreed  in 
pronouncing  him  a  handsome  man,  slightly  Scandinavian 
in  coloring.  His  few  intimate  friends  thought  him 
beautiful  for  they  knew  the  character  back  of  the  ap- 
pearance. He  possessed  a  well  proportioned  physique  of 
medium  size.  I  seldom  saw  him  in  any  suit  but  one 
of  rough  grayish  texture,  loose-fitting  and  broad  cut 
in  the  prevaiUng  style  and  that  tended  to  accentuate 
his  stature,  so  that  I  remember  him  as  larger  than  he 
probably  was. 

This  impression  v/as  strengthened  by  sight  of  his 
hands.  They  always  seemed  to  me  rather  large  but 
of  splendid  shape — resembling  a  hand  like  Rubin- 
stein's rather  than  that  of  Liszt,  and  so  muscular  in 
appearance.     I  have  never  seen  hands  possessing  so 

—15— 


much  strength  and  extending  from  wrist  to  finger  tips. 
His  fingers  had  a  marvelous  dexterity  and  his  execution 
of  trills,  rapid  scales  and  arpeggios  was  astounding. 
The  velocity  of  their  motions  was  amazing  and  some- 
times almost  uncontrollable.  The  size  of  his  hands 
sometimes  caused  him  trouble  by  their  overstretch 
so  that  he  had  to  be  careful  not  to  include  a  note  beyond 
the  one  desired.  In  chord  playing  MacDowell  was 
unsurpassed.  Memory  will  hold  forever  those  deeply 
pressed,  soul  satisfying,  glorious  chord  harmonies 
produced  by  his  powerful  gripping  grasp.  I  have  always 
imagined  that  MacDowell's  hands  largely  influenced 
his  style  of  composition.  Hands  are  considered  a  true 
index  to  one's  character.  It  is  also  said  that  to  be  a 
genuine  musician  three  H's  are  absolutely  essential, 
"Head,  Heart  and  Hands."  All  these  requisites  are 
undeniably  evident  in  the  music  of  MacDowell.  Part 
of  what  has  just  been  told  is  knowledge  I  gained  as 
time  passed,  but  much  of  it  is  first  impressions.  Of 
one  thing  I  was  fully  conscious  during  the  first  meeting, 
that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  personality  highly  charged 
with  magnetism,  charm,  power.  The  very  air  breathed 
it,  there  was  no  escaping  it  nor  had  I  the  sUghtest  wish 
to  do  so.  On  the  contrary  I  deemed  myself  highly 
privileged  and  was  devoutly  grateful  to  be  allowed  to 
come  within  the  circle  of  the  vivifying,  stimulating  in- 
fluence of  a  man  who  was  as  wonderful  a  teacher  as 
he  was  a  composer  and  pianist. 

Had  MacDowell's  hand  clasp  of  greeting  been  any 
criterion  of  his  feeUngs  I  might  have  considered  my- 
self welcome  for  life!  It  was  the  grasp  of  six  note 
chords!  Somewhat  apprehensively  I  wondered  if  my 
fingers  were  not  temporarily  paralyzed  but  with  the 
pressure  of  that  grip  removed  they  seemed  to  resume 
normal  condition.  So  the  secret  hope  that  I  had  been 
incapacitated  for  playing  was  taken  from  me. 

—16— 


MacDowell  proceeded  to  ask  me  numerous  questions 
and  was  extremely  interested  in  our  western  people 
and  conditions.  Our  freedom  from  the  customs  of  a 
grandfather's  day,  our  progressive  boldness  of  action, 
seemed  to  appeal  to  him  strongly.  So  when  he  asked 
me  what  I  wanted  of  him  I  summoned  as  much  "western 
nerve"  to  my  aid  as  I  could  possibly  muster  and  very 
bravely  informed  him  that  I  wanted  to  know  as  much 
of  what  he  knew  as  I  possibly  could.  This  remark 
does  not  sound  very  intelligble;  neither  did  it  then  I  am 
quite  sure.  Whatever  it  was  that  I  did  say  amused 
MacDowell  very  much  tho  only  the  merry  eyes  betrayed 
him.  It  was  a  laugh  without  a  sting  in  it,  and  I  could 
join  in  it  much  to  my  relief.  The  tension  was  broken. 
He  courteously  and  considerately  spared  my  feelings 
by  refraining  from  any  comment  upon  my  incoherent 
remarks  and  instead   suggested  that  I  play  for  him. 

The  worst  had  come!  No  excuse  was  acceptable. 
How  I  found  my  way  across  his  salon,  and  seated  myself 
before  a  large  Steinway  Grand  piano  I  never  have  known ! 
At  least  that  was  the  name  I  afterwards  read,  the  letters 
then  for  some  reason  did  not  seem  legibly  stamped  on. 
The  keys  were  apparently  having  a  little  dance,  a 
demon's  dance  it  must  have  been,  and  would  not  stay 
in  their  accustomed  places.  The  pedals  too  were  so 
far  off,  probably  due  to  a  more  wobbly  tremulo  in  my 
knees  than  ever  found  in  any  organ  stop.  No  matter 
how  hard  I  tried  no  sound  came  to  my  ears  but  a  faint 
buzzing.  Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  know  by  painful 
experience  all  these  sensations. 

Again  if  I  had  but  known!  When  I  was  better 
acquainted  v/ith  MacDowell  I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever 
experienced  the  terrors  of  stage  fright.  His  answer 
was  a  most  expressive  affirmative  and  he  told  me  of 
various  experiences  he  had  endured.  He  concluded 
by  saying  that  the  hardest  thing  he  could  do  was  to 


walk  from  a  stage  entrance  to  the  piano  across  a  plat- 
form, the  observed  of  all  observers;  that  he  usually 
had  some  one  accompany  him  right  to  the  door  and 
literally  force  him  thro  it  lest  even  then  he  turn  and 
flee.  But  once  seated  upon  the  piano  bench,  his  fears 
vanished  completely,  and  the  minute  his  fingers  caressed 
the  keys  he  became  utterly  oblivious  to  everything  but 
the  music.  The  public  found  it  difficult  ever  to  make 
a  "matinee  idol"  of  MacDowell.  He  disliked  too 
decidedly  a  disquieting  crowd  and  simply  shrank  from 
being  the  centre  of  attraction.  As  much  as  he  possibly 
could  he  refused  to  be  the  "lion  of  the  evening."  Tho 
often  forced  to  attend  "functions"  he  frequently  managed 
to  escape  if  not  carefully  watched. 

Who  says  the  age  of  miracles  is  gone?  It  is  not! 
Of  that  I  am  positive  for  one  happened  right  while  I 
was  trying  my  best  to  entertain  MacDowell  with  my 
playing.  Had  it  not  occurred  so  auspiciously  I  fear  the 
great  privilege  of  becoming  a  private  pupil  of  MacDowell 
would  never  have  been  mine.  In  the  midst  of  despair, 
at  the  moment  I  was  beginning  to  recover  some  poise 
and  had  determined  I  would  play  my  best,  "do  and  then 
die"  if  necessary,  rescue  came. 

My  one  sensible  thought  all  this  time  was  that  Mac- 
Dowell stood  watching  me  closely.  To  add  to  my 
discomfort  the  pupil  had  also  remained.  I  remember 
wishing  they  would  both  go  farther  away  and  give  my 
music  the  benefit  of  distance.  Suddenly  after  only 
a  moment's  playing  MacDowell  leaned  over,  impulsively 
picked  up  one  of  my  hands  in  his,  and  showing  it  to  the 
second  listener  remarked,  "Did  you  ever  see  a  more 
perfect  hand?"  The  answer  held  no  especial  interest 
for  me.  My  chief  concern  was  to  follow  my  hand  and 
increase  the  distance  between  the  piano  and  myself 
as  quickly  as  possible.  In  some  way  I  succeeded  in 
doing  this  unnoticed  by  them,  for  both  were  in  an  ani- 

— IS— 


mated  discussion  over  hand  values.  It  is  not  said 
boastfully  but  I  have  always  possessed  splendid  hands 
for  piano.  Yet  never  in  all  my  life  have  I  been  so  thank- 
ful for  them.  Happening  to  glance  at  a  clock  MacDowell 
was  surprised  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour  and  dismissed 
me  most  kindly,  promising  to  communicate  with  me  very 
shortly.  I  begged  him  not  to  waste  any  time  consider- 
ing the  matter  but  just  send  a  message  stating  the  hour 
and  date  of  my  first  lesson.  And  this  he  did.  A  few 
days  later  the  mail  brought  me  this  desired  information 
and  I  entered  upon  a  series  of  lessons  which  I  value 
more  and  more  each  passing  year  of  my  life. 

Once  upon  a  time  I  had  studied  with  Wm.  Mason, 
America's  famous  pedagogue  and  I  recall  his  teUing  me 
of  a  lesson  he  once  had  from  Liszt,  for  which  he  paid 
what  he  considered  at  the  time  the  fabulous  sum  of 
$20.00.  He  went  on  to  say  that  he  would  not  take  any 
amount  of  money  for  that  one  lesson.  His  sentiment 
expresses  a  similar  gratitude  and  valuation  which  I 
have  always  felt  towards  my  lessons  from  MacDowell. 

In  order  to  accept  me  MacDowell  was  forced  to 
appoint  my  lesson  hour  late  in  the  afternoon  at  the  end 
of  a  long  day.  This  time  gave  me  exceptional  oppor- 
tunity for  no  one  followed  to  interrupt.  Consequently 
my  half  hour  of  regular  lesson  period  quite  regularly 
extended  to  twice  that  and  often  more.  You  know 
MacDowell  was  "temperate  in  all  things  but  work" 
and  begrudged  his  pupils  nothing.  I  can  best  describe 
my  lessons  by  caUing  them  "conversational"  or  "in- 
formational." Perhaps  I  may  be  allowed  to  use  the 
term  "musical  rejuvenation"  as  best  expressing  my 
need  as  I  presented  it  to  him.  I  wanted  to  acquire  all 
possible  knowledge  which  I  could  later  assimilate  and 
exemplify.  These  lessons  were  to  me  untold  treasure. 
There  was  scarcely  a  subject  connected  with  music  or 
musicians,  classic  or  modern,  that  was  not  discussed. 

—19— 


Sometimes  remembering  his  unstinted  generosity  of 
time  and  effort  I  am  conscience  smitten  at  my  acceptance 
of  so  much,  and  it  is  a  real  comfort  to  remember  that 
MacDov;ell  himself  called  my  "different"  lessons  his 
"rest  lessons"  and  personally  assured  me  more  than 
once  that  "he  really  looked  forward  to  them."  I 
attended  every  concert  of  any  merit  whatsoever,  and 
before  and  following  each,  distinctive  features  both 
technical  and  educational  were  commented  upon. 
Often  I  carried  to  a  lesson  a  dozen  or  more  pieces  of 
music  to  be  used  as  practical  illustrations  of  interesting 
points,  technical,  theoretical,  analytical.  Much  use  was 
made  of  MacDowell's  own  "Technical  Exercises," 
splendid  aids  to  muscular  development.  The  wrist 
exercises  I  recall  particularly.  Certain  work  had  been 
directed  for  me  at  one  of  my  lessons  and  so  strenuous 
were  my  endeavors  to  carry  this  out  that  the  nail  on 
every  finger  had  been  broken  off  to  the  quick.  Con- 
sequently my  fingers  were  very  sore  and  oozed  bloody 
marks  over  the  piano  keys.  Nevertheless  I  persevered 
until  the  next  lesson  when  in  executing  these  same 
gymnastic  studies  I  left  a  trail  upon  his  piano  also. 
Upon  noticing  it  his  surprised  look  changed  to  one  of 
real  consternation  when  he  perceived  the  cause,  as  if 
he  had  been  guilty  of  some  genuine  crime.  However, 
I  considered  myself  quite  sufficiently  rewarded  by  his 
smile  and  words  of  approval  for  my  perseverance.  I 
also  appreciated  his  tactful  omission  of  comment  upon 
my  lack  of  judgment.  Incidentally  this  same  book  of 
"Technical  Exercises"  is  a  very  practical  illustration 
of  the  exceptional  muscular  development  of  his  own 
hands. 

From  my  overtime  lessons  dates  my  acquaintance 
with  Mrs.  MacDowell.  This  was  limited  to  the  sound 
of  her  voice  for  of  her  in  those  days  I  stood  in  wholesome 
awe.    As  the  hour  grev/  late,  a  door  would  softly  open 

—20— 


enough  for  a  head  to  appear  and  a  modest  soft  voice 
would  say,  "Edward,  remember  you  have  an  engage- 
ment," words  which  sounded  a  warning.  As  a  result 
preHminary  steps  would  be  taken  to  end  the  lesson  but 
little  definite  action.  Thereupon,  after  a  few  moments, 
the  door  would  again  be  opened,  again  could  be  heard, 
firmer  this  time,  the  same  voice  repeating  the  warning. 
Sometimes  even  this  was  not  instantly  obeyed  and  a 
third  summons  would  be  given.  Neither  teacher  nor 
pupil  ever  disregarded  that  tone  of  decision  and  finality. 
And  that  is  why  I  never  dared  cultivate  more  closely 
Mrs.  MacDowell's  acquaintance  until  many  years  after. 

At  one  of  my  first  lessons  I  thought  to  give  Mac- 
Dowell  a  pleasant  surprise  and  proceeded  to  inform  him 
that  tho  from  the  "wild  and  woolly  west"  I  did  know 
and  played  one  of  his  compositions.  He  seemed  de- 
lighted and  inquired,  "which  one?"  "Pride  surely  goeth 
before  a  fall!"  I  shall  never  forget  his  disgusted  look 
when  I  answered,  the  "Witches  Dance,"  which  I  had 
found  in  a  copy  of  "The  Etude."  Right  then  I  received 
enlightening  information  from  headquarters  and  learned 
how  great  composers  feel  regarding  earlier  compositions. 
MacDowell  expressed  decided  regret  that  he  had  ever 
written  this  piece  as  well  as  others  of  the  same  period 
and  really  abhorred  the  thought  that  he  might  always  be 
known  as  a  composer  of  music  like  that  rather  than  his 
later  individualistic  creations.  Notwithstanding  the 
very  natural  attitude  of  MacDowell  towards  the  "Witches 
Dance,"  it  is  a  very  captivating  piece  of  music  and  if 
you  have  ever  heard  Carreno  play  it  you  know  how  it 
should  sound.  Unfortunately  it  is  an  especial  "pet" 
of  students  and  suffers  many  tortuous  renditions. 
However  do  not  think  because  this  music  bears  Mac- 
Dowell's name  you  know  the  real  MacDowell  music. 
The  "Witches  Dance"  could  have  been  written  by  most 

—21— 


any  talented  composer  but  such  a  master  piece  as  the 
'  'Keltic"  sonata  by  no  other  less  great  than  MacDowell. 

That  lesson  taught  me  much !  I  remember  thinking 
if  any  one  could  profess  disdain  of  what  seemed  to  me 
then  very  lovely  music  that  person  must  be  even  greater 
than  I  had  imagined  and  I  more  ignorant  than  I  had 
known.  Not  appreciating  "the  bliss  of  ignorance,"  I 
immediately  bought  every  piece  of  MacDowell  music 
at  that  time  published  and  ever  since  his  compositions 
have  been  my  life  long  close  companions.  Thro  inter- 
course with  him  I  studied  his  music,  thro  it  I  gained 
greater  understanding  of  him,  and  from  both  I  obtained 
a  liberal  education. 

A  great  poet  has  told  us,  "A  man  should  hear  a 
little  music,  read  a  little  poetry  and  see  a  fine  picture 
every  day  of  his  life."  This  precept  if  obeyed  would 
certainly  make  each  one  of  our  lives  a  world  of  beauty 
unto  itself  and  to  each  other.  Should  you  be  one  of 
the  many  who  fail  to  adopt  this  bit  of  wisdom  may  I 
suggest  that  you  study  and  perform  MacDowell's 
music.  You  will  find  it  a  rare  and  satisfying  substitute 
and  be  well  repaid.  MacDowell  was  a  poet,  an  artist, 
and  best  of  all  a  musician;  so  the  poetry,  the  picture, 
the  music  are  all  there,  combined  and  attuned  as  one 
glorious  art. 

Personally  I  have  met  v/ith  many  amusing  incidents 
connected  with  the  general  public's  ignorance  regarding 
our  greatest  American  composer.  1  happily  confess 
they  belong  to  the  past  for  the  most  part.  Some  lady 
supposedly  well  informed  remarked  one  day  to  me. 
"You  studied  with  Mr.  MacDowell,  didn't  you,  I  heard 
him  play  once."  Prospects  of  pleasurable  reminiscences 
loomed  up  before  me,  only  to  be  abruptly  destroyed 
when  she  continued,  "I  met  him  last  summer  in  Salt 
Lake  City  and  heard  him  give  one  of  his  lovely  organ 

—22— 


recitals."  I  yielded  to  temptation  and  left  her  in 
contented  blissful  ignorance.  It  is  within  very  recent 
years  that  this  incident  also  occurred  and  in  a  large 
music  store  in  one  of  our  best  known  cities.  It  sounds 
incredible  but  is  nevertheless  absolutely  true.  Know- 
ing that  Mrs.  MacDowell  had  hoped  to  make  some 
records  of  her  husband's  music  and  anxious  to  hear 
them  as  soon  as  possible  I  went  into  the  record  depart- 
ment of  this  store  and  asked  the  clerk  if  she  had  any 
records  of  MacDowell's  music.  Being  loyal  to  the 
store's  reputation  she  immediately  answered,  *'0h  yes! 
We  have  them  all.  They  are  always  sent  to  us  as  soon 
as  MacDowell  makes  them."  Nov/ 1  had  often  curiously 
speculated  upon  the  music  he  and  all  other  music  makers 
are  producing  in  that  world  of  music  above.  Oh,  what 
heavenly  strains  they  must  be!  (I  say  this  in  all  serious- 
ness.) Sometimes  I  have  wondered  if  a  genius  is  not 
simply  a  medium,  who  transfers  thro  his  expression  of 
art  a  little  part  of  Heaven's  glories  for  man's  v/onder- 
ment.  However  I  had  never  expected  such  surmises 
upon  my  part  to  be  actually  verified.  I  asked  the  clerk 
to  let  me  see  what  she  had.  She  v/as  gone  some  length 
of  time  and  finally  returned  looking  rather  puzzled,  say- 
ing the  stock  seemed  to  be  out  but  if  I  would  return  a 
little  later  she  would  send  a  new  order  at  once.  While 
waiting  for  her  return  I  had  been  listening  to  a  splendid 
record  of  Chopin's  "Ballade  in  G  m.,  always  a  favorite 
composition  of  mine.  So  I  asked  her  the  question  per- 
haps foolishly  misleading,  "Who  is  playing  that  record?" 
She  obUgingly  looked  and  volunteered  the  information 
that  "Chopin  was  playing."  I  politely  thanked  her  and 
remarked  in  turn  that  I  was  very  glad  that  I  had  hap- 
pened in  for  I  had  always  wished  to  hear  Chopin  play. 
Critics  declare  that  the  music  of  Chopin  and  that  of 
MacDowell  are  splendid  complements  of  each  other  for 
program  use.  This  incident  I  know  alv/ays  associates 
the  two  composers  in  my  mind.     It  is  still  regrettable 

—23— 


that  as  yet  no  records  of  MacDowell's  music  have  suc- 
cessfully materialized.  All  music  lovers  are  earnestly 
hoping  that  Mrs.  MacDowell  will  surely  in  the  near 
future  personally  make  MacDowell  records  that  posterity 
may  so  advantageously  possess  authentic  interpretations. 

My  study  with  MacDowell  came  during  the  years 
shortly  preceding  his  resignation  from  Columbia. 
Looking  back  I  can  recognize  several  little  occurences, 
not  noticeable  at  that  time  but  which  I  now  believe 
were  sHght  indications  of  his  approaching  illness.  One 
I  remember  did  singularly  impress  me  tho  I  could  not 
tell  the  reason.  It  was  connected  with  my  trial  per- 
formance, which  MacDowell  himself  had  interrupted. 
At  my  first  lesson  something  seemed  to  be  troubling 
him.  Finally  he  abruptly  asked,  "What  did  you  play 
for  me,  I  can't  seem  to  remember."  Fearing  a  repeti- 
tion might  be  demanded  I  hurriedly  ansv/ered,  "I  did  not 
play  anything  for  you,  Mr.  MacDowell.  You  wouldn't 
listen  to  me,"  and  eagerly  resumed  my  lesson.  I 
recalled  afterwards  that  he  did  not  seemed  satisfied  tho 
he  said  no  more  at  that  time.  But  at  the  next  lesson  he 
repeated  his  question.  I  felt  that  for  some  reason  the 
matter  seemed  to  him  important,  so  I  gave  him  a  de- 
tailed account  of  v/hat  had  happened,  to  his  apparent 
relief,  for  he  remarked  it  troubled  him  that  he  could 
not  remember  and  he  did  not  see  why  he  could  not. 
Years  after  I  knew  the  reason  of  his  mental  disturbance 
and  feel  sure  that  even  then  he  felt  some  slight  pre- 
monition of  impending  disaster. 

Another  day  he  appeared  so  physically  weary  I 
could  not  refrain  from  begging  him  to  take  a  rest  and 
omit  my  lesson.  He  only  shook  his  head  by  way  of 
refusal  and  in  voice  that  was  more  of  a  sigh  than  any- 
thing else  said  to  me.  "I  have  not  the  time,  my  time 
is  too  short  as  it  is,  much  too  short  for  what  I  want  to  do, 
must   do."     Turning   to   a    desk   nearly   covered    with 

—24— 


manuscript  he  picked  up  some  sheets  and  continued 
"I  must  finish  this."  That  manuscript  belonged  to 
the  "Keltic"  sonata  which  at  that  time  was  practically 
completed.  I  do  not  beheve  I  mistate  when  I  say  there 
is  no  more  sublime  conception  existent  in  the  v/orld's 
musical  library  than  this  sonata.  It  is  a  most  noble 
climax  of  grandeur.  When  I  recall  that  I  have  seen  and 
held  some  of  its  original  copy  in  my  hands  I  involuntarily 
think  of  some  shrine  or  sacred  treasure  which  one  views 
only  in  silent  homage  and  reverential  attitude. 

For  many  years  this  sonata  has  lain  upon  my  piano 
in  full  view  or  within  easy  reach  so  that  I  could  frequently 
spend  a  few  moments  playing  it.  I  have  found  it  the 
best  of  company.  As  years  passed  I  taught  its  wondrous 
beauties  to  my  son,  a  promising  young  musician.  For 
months  and  months  and  months  he  practised  almost 
daily  the  "Appassionata"  sonata  of  Beethoven  and  the 
"Keltic"  sonata  of  MacDowell,  in  his  opinion  the  two 
greatest  of  all  compositions.  Both  he  had  thoroughly 
memorized  and  minutely  analyzed.  The  former  offered 
no  harmonic  difficulties.  But  after  hours  of  study  on 
perhaps  one  chord  formation  he  would  say,  "I  can't  see 
where  MacDowell  ever  got  that  chord"  and  add  with 
all  the  confidence  of  youth,  "If  he  really  got  it  anywhere 
I'll  find  out  where."  The  copy  he  used  is  covered  with 
various  annotations  denoting  deep  analytical  study. 
This  son  was  with  me  v/hile  I  was  studying  with  Mac- 
Dowell and  usually  accompanied  me  to  my  lesson. 
He  was  just  four  years  old  but  was  playing  easy  com- 
positions from  Bach,  Mozart,  Schumann  and  others. 
While  I  was  engaged  he  would  sit  so  quietly  upon  a 
chair  apparently  absorbed  in  all  he  heard  and  saw  that 
he  soon  attracted  MacDowell's  interest.  One  day  he 
said  to  John,  "Sometime  perhaps  you  will  love  music 
as  your  mother  does  and  will  also  play."  Without  a 
second's  hesitation  John  replied,  "I  play  now"  and  pro- 


ceeded  to  climb  up  on  the  piano  bench  without  further 
invitation.  MacDowell  was  much  amused  but  soon 
astonished  to  hear  so  small  a  person  play  a  Bach  Prelude. 
After  that  day  I  never  dared  appear  without  my  boy  and 
when  the  time  arrived  for  us  to  return  home  it  was  a 
parting  agreement  between  both  MacDowell  and  him 
that  some  day  in  the  future  they  would  meet  again  as 
teacher  and  pupil.  "Remember,  John,  I  expect  great 
things  of  you"  were  words  the  boy  carried  as  incentive 
thro  many  years  of  work.  Then  one  summer  he  and 
I  started  off  for  a  rest  at  the  beach.  I  had  forbidden  his 
taking  any  music  but  at  the  last  moment  he  said,  "Mother 
please  let  me  take  the  "Keltic,"  I  just  can't  go  without 
it."  A  few  days  later  a  treacherous  ocean  had  claimed 
another  victim  and  a  beautiful  spirit  had  been  called 
home.  I  feel  quite  sure  he  is  now  doing  the  "great 
things"  MacDowell  had  predicted  for  him  and,  who  can 
tell,  perhaps  under  the  composer's  own  guidance  he  has 
learned  where  the  wondrous  chords  of  the  "Keltic" 
sonata,   his   last  beloved  companion,  were  found. 

"Somewhere  in  God's  Great  Universe,  my  boy 

Obeys  his  Captain,  does  his  duty  well. 
His  work,  his  loyalty  still  gives  me  joy. 

No  letter  now  is  needed,  news  to  tell. 
I  know  his  Leader,  know  the  loving  care 

With  which  his  work  is  watched  in  that  new  place. 
I  love  to  think  of  his  promotion  there. 

I  can  be  happy,  even  though  his  face 
Shines  only  in  my  memory,  and  his  voice 

Comes  in  my  dreams  to  bid  me  still  rejoice." 

Mary  L.  French. 

MacDowell  was  eager  to  go  west  and  was  already 
planning  to  concertize  during  his  sabbatical  year  of 
freedom  soon  due.  He  desired  to  include  my  home 
city  in  his  itinerary  and  requested  my  help  in  local 
management  of  a  concert.  I  gladly  promised  all  the 
aid  in  my  power,  at  the  same  time  warning  him  "it 

—26— 


couldn't  be."  Somewhat  surprised  it  was  his  turn  to 
ask  "why"  and  I  who  answered,  "You  may  not  beUeve 
me  but  your  name  is  almost  unknown  and  seldom  heard 
out  there  and  so  very  few  have  ever  heard  of  your  music." 
This  statement  he  did  not  really  credit  until  he  began 
his  tour.  Every  attempt  possible  was  made  to  arrange 
a  program.  The  guarantee  could  not  be  raised  even 
tho  he  eventually  materially  reduced  his  price,  and  that 
locality  lost  forever  the  opportunity  of  hearing  a  great 
composer  interpret  his  great  thoughts.  In  justice  to  all 
I  repeat  that  these  things  all  took  place  close  to  twenty 
years  ago  and  conditions  there  as  elsewhere  have 
greatly  changed. 

A  very  few  years  later  when  this  great  intellect  was 
slowly  drifting  from  us  I  once  more  attempted  a  concert; 
this  time  for  him.  The  response  was  generous  and  for 
the  first  time  in  the  history  of  that  section  of  the  country 
a  program  was  given  consisting  wholly  of  MacDowell 
music  to  a  most  appreciative  audience  and  presented 
by  the  best  local  artists.  There,  as  everywhere,  all 
tried  to  share  and  lend  some  comfort  in  a  wide  world 
tragedy. 

No  matter  how  long  MacDowell  might  have  lived 
he  would  never  have  accumulated  worldly  riches.  His 
nature  was  too  generous  and  there  are  many  who  have 
reason  to  know  this.  Terms  for  lessons  were  sup- 
posedly in  advance  nor  would  he  bother  with  a  pupil 
for  less  than  ten  lessons,  and  those  taken  but  once  a 
week.  So  at  my  first  lesson  I  tendered  him  some  money. 
He  hesitated  a  moment,  more  I  think  from  the  fear  of 
hurting  my  feelings  by  his  offer,  but  finally  suggested, 
"You  will  want  to  hear  all  the  music  you  possibly  can 
while  in  New  York  and  this  will  cost  you  money.  Keep 
this  and  pay  me  later  but  hear  all  you  can."  I  protested, 
insinuated  that  I  was  a  stranger,  warned  him  of  the  risk 


he  ran  but  he  insisted.  When  a  few  lessons  later  I 
made  payment  in  full  for  lessons  but  never  for  the 
generous  act  I  think  he  had  actually  forgotten  even  the 
existence  of  my  debt. 

A  concert  by  Hoffman  had  been  announced  the  date 
of  which  unfortunately  conflicted  with  my  lesson  hour 
As  I  had  heard  him  as  a  boy  prodigy  I  was  rather  anxious 
to  attend  his  concert  but  hated  to  lose  my  lesson.  Trust- 
ing that  an  opportunity  to  hear  Hoffman  would  come 
again  I  decided  in  favor  of  the  latter.  During  the  hour 
I  informed  MacDowell  of  my  conflicting  desires  sug- 
gesting, with  good  intentions  but  short  sighted  dis- 
cretion, that  perhaps  he  also  would  have  liked  to  go. 

I  discovered  that  he  seldom  attended  a  concert  or 
if  he  did  never  remained  till  the  end.  There  were  two 
reasons  for  this  attitude  toward  public  concerts.  As  a 
musical  connoiseur  he  could  not  of  course  receive  much 
inspiration  from  the  usual  performance.  The  classics 
he  knew  too  well  himself  to  gain  much  from  other's 
impartations.  Modern  music  he  told  me  he  did  not 
wish  to  hear  because  he  feared  he  might  quite  un- 
consciously absorb  some  quality  of  it  and  instil  it  in  his 
own  and  thus  destroy  the  stamp  of  inimitable  individ- 
uality and  originality  he  was  so  earnestly  striving  to 
estabhsh. 

At  great  personal  self  denial  this  ambition  was 
assuredly  accomplished.  MacDowell  music  is  so  dis- 
tinctive as  to  have  earned  the  name  "MacDowellish" 
or  "MacDowellized."  From  Liszt  was  learned  an 
enduring  lesson  "not  to  squeeze  music  into  traditional 
molds  but  to  crystalize  into  own  shapes." 

Upon  mere  cursory  thought  it  seems  curious  that  a 
creative  artist  loses  active  interest  in  "the  children  of 
his  fancy"  as  soon  as  his  inspiration  becomes  a  finished 

— 2S— 


product  and  is  visualized  to  the  public  eye.  When  it  is 
given  out  to  the  world  the  "oneness"  with  its  creator  is 
severed,  a  new  inspiration  engages  his  thoughts.  The 
period  spent  in  the  creation  of  a  work  is  the  memory 
retained  by  the  artist.  I  have  heard  many  artists  ex- 
press this  sentiment  so  it  must  contain  some  truth. 

Perhaps  for  that  reason  MacDowell  did  not  often 
enjoy  hearing  his  own  music  performed  by  indifferent 
interpreters.  He  was  most  particular  in  his  taste  and 
insisted  upon  having  it  "either  rarely  or  well  done." 
Nothing  but  the  best  satisfied  him  and  he  expected 
nothing  less  from  others.  He  seldom  gave  his  music 
to  his  pupils.  A  very  well  known  concert  pianist  pupil 
spent  the  larger  part  of  a  lesson  hour  begging  per- 
mission to  take  up  one  of  his  greater  compositions. 
Her  persistency  finally  won  a  reluctant  impatient,  "Well 
take  it  if  you  are  so  anxious."  I  asked  his  objections 
and  he  repHed,  "When  you  have  heard  things  live  here 
(placing  his  hand  upon  his  head)  you  do  not  want  to 
hear  them  any  other  place,  they  never  sound  the  same." 
I  remember  hinting  that  it  might  be  true  altruism  upon 
his  part  to  teach  as  many  people  as  he  could  his  most 
desirable  interpretation  in  order  to  insure  future  au- 
thentic rendition  of  it.  Incidentally  I  might  mention 
MacDowell's  disHke  of  wasteful  discussion.  His  opinion 
usually  meant  changeless  conviction  and  with  an  "un- 
afraid spirit  he  maintained  his  positiveness." 

One  day  I  witnessed  the  trial  of  a  pianist  who  had 
come  all  the  way  from  Seattle  to  obtain  lessons  from 
MacDowell.  She  played  most  briUiantly  but  he  refused 
positively  to  accept  her,  notwithstanding  her  urgent 
pursuasions  and  tears  as  well.  Again  I  queried  "why." 
"I  couldn't  have  stood  her  two  lessons"  he  replied. 
It  seems  she  impressed  him  as  entirely  lacking  in  self- 
effacement,  her  self-insistence  was  too  evident.     In- 

—29— 


stead    of    aesthetic    absorption    she    exhibited    merely 
technical  inclinations. 

MacDowell's  life  has  been  compared  by  some  one 
to  his  own  "Tragica"  sonata  which  "in  its  final  move- 
ment changes  from  glorious  triumph  to  overv/helming 
misery."  "Joy  and  woe,  hope  and  fear  and  peace  and 
strife"  had  all  been  mingled  "in  the  thread  of  human 
life."  Do  not  retain  any  painful  impression  of  Mac- 
Dowell's closing  years.  Time  simply  "turned  back- 
ward for  him  in  its  flight  and  made  him  a  child  again" 
for  just  those  few  years;  gave  him  a  "wonderful  un- 
earthly beauty,  no  lack  of  intelligence  in  his  eyes,  and 
kept  him  usually  happy."  A  book  of  fairy  tales  became 
again  a  chief  delight  as  it  had  been  once  before  in 
childhood  days.  One  memory  remained  with  him, 
he  always  recognized  his  wife.  Her  presence  never 
failed  to  bring  a  happy  smile  to  his  face.  Hour  after 
hour  she  gave  him  pleasure  by  playing  for  him  his  own 
wonderful  music.  Ever  she  watched  his  face  and  by 
its  varied  expression  knew  when  she  had  pleased  him. 
Sometimes  she  had  to  play  the  same  passage  many 
times  over  before  the  happy  contented  smile  would 
come.  Does  any  one  wonder  that  she  can  now  interpret 
her  husband's  music  in  the  way  he  wished  and  that 
she  has  permeated  it  with  a  vital  intimacy  belonging 
to  no  one  else! 

Some  one  has  declared  that  composers  of  music 
have  done  more  for  the  world's  civilization  and  happi- 
ness than  any  other  people  and  that  music  would  be  the 
last  thing  next  to  religion  to  be  spared  from  life.  They 
are  the  "foolish  people"  "who  make  the  world  move  on" 
while  the  "wise  people"  take  the  world  "as  they  find 
it."  Yet  posterity  knows  only  the  names  of  the  "foolish 
ones." 

—?.0— 


Blessed  be  the  music  makers  and  thrice  blessed 
the  name  of  MacDowell.     May  his  memory  relive  in 

his  music  forever  and  ever.  May  the  song  be  heard 
eternally  tho  the  singer  has  passed  away.  May  "God 
be  with  them  all  who  have  passed  into  the  land  of 
Singing  Shadows,  and  may  God  send  us  more  of  their 
Uke." 


—31— 


ROMANCE 

Many  times  had  I  dreamed  a  beautiful  dream. 
After  long,  patient  waiting,  much  earnest  striving,  the 
dream  came  true.  For  years  had  I  longed  to  see  Peter- 
borough, that  uniquely  interesting  New  England  home 
of  Edward  MacDowell.  At  last  my  desire  became  a 
realization  amazingly  satisfying,  in  its  fulfilment  far 
surpassing  even  my  highest  anticipation.  I  roamed, 
fairly  drugged  with  "deep  breathing  moments,"  over  a 
land  of  enchantments;  I  was  entranced  by  its  magic 
spell  of  visible  and  invisible  "presences;"  overwhelmed 
by  its  all  pervading  spirit  of  romanticism  and  mysticism ; 
speechless,  in  awe  and  reverence,  before  such  stupend- 
ous and  glorious  harmonies  of  sight  and  sound,  all  so 
beautifully  woven  by  masterly  handicraft  of  God  and 
man. 

Truly  is  Peterborough  a  Land  of  Dreams,  every 
touch  of  it  inspirationally  symboHstic  of  the  ideals  of 
that  far-seeing,  clear-visioned,  prophetic  Idealist,  Edward 
MacDowell.  From  rare  and  hallowed  atmosphere  is 
reflected  a  wondrous  beauty;  yet  back  of  nature's 
artistry  seems  something  even  greater.  Imperatively 
is  sensed  the  tremendous  influence  of  a  powerful, 
omnipresent  motif,  the  motif  of  altruism.  To  this 
haven  of  rest  and  remoteness,  serious-minded  creative 
artists  are  privileged  to  come.  Here  they  labor  un- 
remittingly and  conscientiously,  for  the  advancement  of 
art,  and  while  working  in  pure,  unadulterated  joy  of 
creation,  indulge  the  hope  and  expectation  that  the 
world  will  be  some  richer  for  their  contributions. 

The  MacDowell  Colony  is  rightly  called  a  "Work- 
shop." I  soon  discovered  that  "everybody"  there  was 
"somebody"  and  decided  I  must,  in  some  way,  escape 


the  undesirable  appellation  of  "nobody."  Some  one 
has  used  the  phrase  "volcanically  stimulated,"  and  I 
know  of  no  other  term  which  so  aptly  describes  the 
dynamic  desire  aroused  in  every  "Colonist"  to  do 
something. 

This  little  book,  disproportionally  small  compared 
to  the  amount  of  "volcanically  stimulated"  effort  con- 
sumed in  its  making,  is  the  something  I  attempted. 
For  permitting  so  inadequate  a  conception  to  venture 
into  public  view,  may  I  offer  the  excuse  of  obedience  to 
the  following  advice;  "Use  what  talent  you  possess,  the 
woods  would  be  silent  if  no  birds  sang,  but  those  which 
sing  best."  Also  I  hasten  to  state,  lest  my  song  sound 
presumptous,  that  it  is  not  sung  for  judgment  by  the 
sophisticated  professional,  or  efficiently  cultured  musi- 
cian— for,  "Tis  with  our  judgments,  as  our  watches, 
none  go  just  alike,  yet  each  believes  his  own." 

I  firmly  believe  that  there  is  latent  talent  or  em- 
bryonic genius  of  some  form  in  every  mortal,  which 
can  always  be  reached  by  the  right  appeal.  Not  all 
humanity  is  attuned  to  the  same  art.  To  one  the 
message  comes  by  music,  to  one  by  picture,  to  another 
by  poetry,  to  still  another  by  story,  yet  the  fundamental 
unity  of  each  art  is  the  same.  Upon  the  interpreter 
devolves  the  duty  of  comparing,  or  paralleling,  one  art 
with  another,  and,  in  that  way,  making  very  clear  the 
close  relation  of  all  arts.  Music  claims  the  gift  of 
reaching  and  stirring  deepest  the  human  heart.  It 
belongs  to  every  one,  is  universal,  and  yet  for  some 
needs  interpretation,  by  application  of  some  other  art. 

Twenty-five  years  of  practical,  professional  ex- 
periences with  the  average  music  student  and  audience 
music  lover,  have  conclusively  proven  to  me  that  mere 
note-playing  does  not  satisfy  them;  nor  do  mere  facts 
meet  their  needs.     But  I  have  found  that  an  appeal  to 

—34— 


the  imagination  brings  gratifying  results,  hence  began 
my  use  of  "storied"  or  "pictorialed"  illustrations. 

The  music  of  MacDowell  is  peculiarly  amenable 
to  imaginative  fancies,  as  most  of  his  compositions  he 
either  entitled  or  prefixed  with  verse  text,  thereby 
making  quite  evident  the  thought,  in  his  own  mind, 
when  composing.  But  he  always  most  emphatically 
disclaimed  any  prescribed  interpretation  (indeed  he 
really  desired  that  to  be  as  varied  as  the  interpreter); 
and  gave  but  one  command  concerning  his  music, 
"Make  it  beautiful."  If  interpreted  at  all  inteUigently, 
it  can  be  nothing  else.  Artists,  unfortunately,  must 
endure  the  inevitable  fate  of  being  made  famous  by 
some  one  work,  usually  easy  of  comprehension.  Among 
the  (so-called)  "Mac  Dowellish"  miniatures  few  have 
attained  sufficient  meritorious  public  recognition  ex- 
cept "The  Wild  Rose"  and  "To  a  Water-Lily,"  both 
so  lovely,  no  wonder  people  are  content  with  these. 
There  are  however,  many  others  less  intimately  known 
but  equally  beautiful,  equally  attainable  technically, 
and  it  is  of  these  that  I  have  herein  made  use. 

This  story  now  appears  in  print  in  answer  to  oft 
repeated  requests  from  many  who  have  expressed 
pleasure  in  hearing  it.  You  the  reader,  may  fall  in 
with  its  whimsical  mood,  or  you  may  think  it  foolish. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  the  mission  of  this  little  book  will 
have  been  well  accomplished  if  it  will  only  arouse  your 
interest  and  stimulate  in  you  greater  desire  to  cultivate 
a  closer  acquaintance  with  these  lovely  miniatures, 
which  some  one  says  "should  be  a  household  word." 
Again  I  quote,  this  time  slightly  paraphrasing  a  favorite 
saying  of  Queen  Victoria,  "My  little  book  may  not  be 
able  to  be  great,  but  it  does  want  to  do  good."  It  con- 
tains a  very  simple  story;  to  be  exact  a  story  divided 
into  two  parts.  One  is  really  founded  upon  facts  and 
is  practically  chronological;  the  other  makes  no  pretense 


of  being  logical,  is  quite  regardless  of  time  and  entirely 
a  product  of  fancy,  tho  what  plot  possesses  was 
gathered  from  life  and  its  clues  were  discovered  in 
titles  and  texts.  This  rambling  preface  must  be  accepted 
as  the  voice  of  the 

"Prologue" 

which  now  appeals  to  you  in  tuneful  melody.  "In 
sturdy  good  humour,"  "petulantly"  even  "threatening- 
ly" or  "crossly;"  then  "pleadingly,"  "mockingly," 
"calmly;"  at  times  deep  "like  a  bass  drum;"  softly 
as  the  end  draws  near,  then  in  climax  of  triumphant 
fortissimo;  in  all  these  widely  varying  moods  does  it 
bespeak  your  interest.  Most  skilfully  does  this  melo- 
dious voice  portray,  in  its  constantly  changing  motif, 
the  many  different  phases  of  human  life.  Surely  the 
message  of  understanding,  expressed  so  plainly  by  this 
music,  will  reach  all  hearts,  will  suit  all  moods. 

Choose,  reader,  the  mood  most  to  your  taste,  but 
try,  will  you  not,  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  this  romance, 
this  applied  fairy-tale?  Be  once  again  as  the  child 
who  asked,  "Mother,  where  do  we  go  when  we  go  to 
Fairy-land?  I  know,  I  know,  we  go  into  God's  heart." 
Perhaps  you  have  lost  your  childhood  gladness ;  perhaps 
the  youth  of  you  has  departed,  stealing  from  your  heart 
something  you  miss  and  wish  would  return,  perhaps 
the  future  is  yet  as  a  dream  before  you.  Whoever  you 
are,  will  you  not  go  to  Fairy-land?  Take  the  trip,  it 
will  gladden  your  souls,  will  release  your  tired  shoulders 
from  burdens  that  weigh  heavily  upon  wings  that  might 
joyfully  soar  to  this  country,  not  far  distant,  yet  scarcely 
known  to  our  work-a-day  v/orld. 

Some  call  it  Fairy-land,  or  the  Land  of  Dreams  or 
Imagination;  some,  the  World  of  Ideals,  the  Abode  of 
Hearts'  Desires,  or  the  Realm  of  Visions.  Others 
know  of  it  as  the  Kingdom  of  PossibiUties,  the  Goal 

—36— 


of  Success,  the  Home  of  Science,  the  Domain  of  Ambi- 
tion. The  name  does  not  matter;  it  is  the  place  that  is 
so  marvelous;  so  transcendent  with  beauty,  so  en- 
riched by  priceless  treasures.  Within  its  boundaries 
are  held  in  bondage  the  phenomenal  secrets  of  all  ages, 
by  discovery  of  which,  men  have  embettered  the  world  of 
Art  and  Science  with  every  new  thing,  every  potentiality 
existent.  From  its  luminous,  celestial  light  has  emanated 
the  enlightenment,  the  development  of  all  civilization. 
By  it,  the  shackles  of  old  dispensations  have  been  burst 
asunder  and  every  new  spiritual  and  material  force 
has  been  released  for  the  world's  progress  and  evolu- 
tion. In  this  place  has  originated  the  wielding  power 
necessary  to  the  construction  of  life's  entire  framework; 
from  conception  of  the  unmanifest  to  fruition  of  the 
manifest,  from  vagueness  of  the  invisible  to  lucidity 
of  the  visible,  from  imaginary  dreams  to  works  of  reality. 
This  land  has  already  yielded  great  wealth  for  the  good 
of  all  humanity,  but  incredible  possibilities  remain 
unexplored,  undiscovered,  because  so  few  people  have 
dared  to  wander  from  the  beaten  paths. 

Since  it  is  an  imaginative  sphere,  its  inhabitants 
are  not  just  like  every  day  people.  The  ordinary 
observer  may  not  perceive  in  them  any  unusual  external 
appearance,  the  difference  lies  deep  hidden  in  "centre 
within,"  in  the  sanctuary  of  the  heart.  Each  one  of 
these  specially  blessed  persons  wears  a  lucky  charm, 
formed  of  clarified  vision  and  purified  motive,  which 
endows  him  with  discriminating  power  of  discernment 
and  reveals  to  him  the  innermost  secrets  and  depths  of 
this  neglected  romantic  world.  Its  secrets  are  securely 
guarded  and  he  who  gains  possession  of  them  must 
patiently  strive.  He  must  think — he  must  dream — he 
must  imagine  —  unceasingly  —  utterly  oblivious  to  all 
outside  distractions.  He  must  keep  his  vieion  con- 
stantly before  him  lest  it.  grow  dim  and  he  lose  it. 


"God  pity  the  man  who  has  lost  his  vision."  The 
world  will  call  him,  frather  derisively  but  secretly 
enviously),  Dreamer,  Idealist,  Visionist.  If  he  will 
pursue  his  way  persistently,  he  will  soon  be  conscious 
of  an  indescribable  power,  a  subtler  sense,  the  highest 
fairy  gift  ever  granted  to  mortals.  It  is  a  spark,  in- 
finitely divine,  transfiguring  the  possessor  into  a  heavenly 
soul,  from  other  humans  far  apart.  This  rare  and  pre- 
cious being  is  called  a  "Genius."  A  genius  may  be 
bom.  Nevertheless,  tho  this  be  true,  he  must  prove 
his  right  of  birth  to  occupy  a  niche  of  fame  above  all 
others.  Nor  can  such  honor  be  obtained  under  false 
pretenses;  the  prize  must  be  fairly  earned. 

There  is  no  road  to  the  Land  of  Breams  that  is  not 
long  and  toilsome.  The  path  is  narrow  and  winding, 
the  climb  steep  and  dangerous  and  the  end  ever  beyond, 
out  of  sight.  Many  there  are  who  start  on  this  weari- 
some journey,  but  few  there  be  who  reach  the  entrance 
of  this  coveted  land,  few  who  find  the  magic  key  to 
unlock  its  door  and  enter  thru  its  fairy  portals. 

No  common  key  suffices.  It  must  be  one  of  work- 
manship of  rarest  skill,  carved  by  a  Master  Artist  and 
so  dehcately  traced  as  to  exact  minutest  perception  to 
appreciate  its  intricate  design.  Sympathy,  sorrow, 
poverty,  truth  and  purity,  sacrifice  of  self,  love  of  all 
things  good,  hatred  of  all  things  bad,  renunciation, 
patience  and  perseverance,  labor,  unappreciation;  all 
these  attributes  and  many  more  of  life's  choicest  ma- 
terials are  found  necessary  to  the  molding  of  this  un- 
usual masterpiece. 

In  the  face  of  so  many  difficulties  is  it  strange 
that  most  people  prefer  the  outer  v/orld  of  pleasure 
seeking  ease  and  fleeting  excitements  and  only  a  few 
desire  this  inner  world,  few  challenge  the  struggle, 
few  win  the  victory.     Now  and  then  one  gains  a  crown 


and,  in  doing  so,  reaps  the  terrible  loneliness  of  great 
men;  grasps  his  goal  only  to  learn  that  his  life  must 
henceforth  mean  one  of  service  to  others.  For  himself 
there  will  be  nothing  but  the  happiness  of  serving,  with- 
out fear  of  punishment  or  hope  of  reward.  He  must 
grow  indifferent  aUke  to  the  plaudits  of  friends,  or 
scoffing  of  enemies;  must  suffer  all  sacrifices  and 
resign  himself  to  being  misunderstood.  For  himself 
contentment,  nay  happiness,  must  come  from  the 
knowledge  that  he  has  proven  himself  worthy  to  be 
this  wonderful  instrument,  a  genius,  God-given  to  the 
world,  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  Heaven  into  the 
hearts  of  men.  In  loyalty  to  duty,  a  genius  must 
strive  to  fulfill  his  mission  of  ennobling  other  souls,  by 
seeking  to  understand  them  and  thereby  making  them 
understood  Therefore  his  own  character  should  be 
wholly  noble  and  pure,  and  his  highest  aim  in  life  will 
be  to  "lift  up  men."  Down  thro  the  ages  has  rung  in 
majestic,  clarion  tones  from  voices  of  Masters  of  Art 
from  historic  past,  this  stern  changeless  decree,  "I 
will  not  go  down  to  the  people,  I  will  bring  the  people 
up  to  me."  This  heritage  has  been  bequeathed  the 
genius  of  each  succeeding  generation  and  has  de- 
manded from  him  a  life  of  all-giving,  but  small-receiving. 
He  must  live  always  with  these  precepts  in  mind. 


"I  would  be  true  for  there  are  those  who  trust  me, 
I  would  be  pure  for  there  are  those  who  care, 
I  would  be  strong  for  there  is  much  to  suffer, 
I  would  be  brave  for  there  is  much  to  dare, 
I  would  be  friend  of  all,  the  foe,  the  friendless, 
I  would  be  giving  and  forget  the  gift, 
I  would  be  humble  for  I  know  my  weakness, 
I  would  look  up,  and  laugh,  and  love,  and  lift." 

E.  D.  Knight. 


—39- 


Considering  all  these  things,  is  it  to  be  wondered 
at  that  so  few  ever  seek  the  joy  everlasting,  that  comes 
from  serving  as  part  of  the  human  life,  thus  gaining 
life  eternal  as  part  of  the  living  God  These  rare  souls 
never  die;  they  stand  like  "solitary  towers  in  the  city 
of  God,"  feeling  perfect  peace  of  heart,  knowing  their 
reward  enough,  that  the  hearts  of  men  were  touched 
and  made  happier  by  their  songs,  songs  that  will  live  as 
long  as  time  itself.  After  all  is  not  this  land  worth 
Hving  in;  have  not  its  dwellers  their  compensations? 
Is  not  their  escape  from  mediocrity,  thro  its  medium, 
in  itself  sufficient  return  for  all  effort?  Is  not  a  genius 
so  thrilled  by  emotions  unutterably  profound,  beside 
which  the  restless  undercurrent  of  life's  ordinary 
turmoil  fades  into  meaningless  insignificance?  In  lofty 
remoteness  from  its  turbulent  surging  and  roaring,  lives 
the  dreamer,  the  romanticist,  in  a  world  of  his  own  full 
of  possibilities. 

The  Land  of  Dreams  is  a  beautiful  world,  full  of 
love  and  peace.  Go  find  it  for  yourself,  live  in  it  as 
often  as  you  can,  and  when  you  have  learned  to  love 
it,  as  I  am  sure  you  will,  then  may  I  ask  you  without 
fear  of  your  matter-of-fact,  every-day-life's  scornful 
answer,  "Is  Romance  dead?"  Then  may  I  feel  certain 
that  you  will  answer  "Surely  not,"  tho  the  constant 
whirl  and  rush  of  our  modern  life  of  over-predominating 
commercialism  may  seem  to  have  surfaced  it  over. 
Hidden  deep,  underneath  it  is  there,  for  Romance 
lives  eternal  in  an  unseen  world,  and  its  romantic 
spirit  is  a  mystic  substance  greedily  sought  by  the  lover 
of  dreams.  "Is  Romance  dead?"  Never,  while  live 
people,  who  see  visions  of  things,  not  as  they  are,  but 
as  they  ought  to  be;  who  yearn  and  strive  to  make  all 
men  realize  that  monarchs  may  Uve,  die  and  lie  for- 
gotten ;  that  crowns,  even  tho  they  be  of  priceless  value, 
will  fall  into  atoms;  that  he  who  leaves  behind  him  a 

—40— 


vision  bequeaths  the  world  a  treasure  that  will  endure 
forever.  A  dream  visualized  can  fairly  obliterate  the 
routine  of  a  daily  life. 

Were  the  truth  all  told  each  one  of  us  could  reveal  a 
romance  "stranger  than  any  fiction."  However,  no 
romance  ever  reveals  the  whole  truth ;  the  real  interest- 
ing half  is  but  temptingly  suggested,  then  left  to  the 
reader's  imagination.  Such  statement  might  be  made 
concerning  this  particular  one,  which  is  quite  true, 
yet  vitally  interesting  just  the  same,  tho  it  unfolds  more 
like  a  fairy  tale  than  one  of  real  life  and  contradicts 
an  undeserved  reputation  of  prosaicism.  It  is  a  real 
story  about  real  people.  The  happenings  of  their  lives 
were  originally  recorded  in  the  sublimental  language 
of  music,  more  expressive  by  far  than  any  other.  For 
the  sake  of  those  who  cannot  clearly  read  that  language, 
I  offer  as  translation  this  tale. 

It  is  imaginative  or  romantic  in  its  appHcation  to 
the  musical  compositions  of  Edward  MacDowell,  who 
was  one  of  those  rare  beings  previously  spoken  of,  a 
genius.  In  fact,  all  people  acknowledge  him  as  "the 
greatest  genius  America  has  yet  produced."  From 
Celtic  ancestry  he  inherited  a  super-sensitive  nature, 
and  all  his  life  he  dreamed  "Dreams  that  had  had 
Dreams  for  Fathers."  He  was  also  called  sometimes 
a  '  Romanticist,"  and  his  life  might  be  spoken  of  as 
having  been  one  continued  vision. 

In  a  "song  without  words,"  entitled 

"Romance" 

he  has  told  us  in  music,  what  a  vision  meant  to  him. 
In  full  cello-like,  singing  tones  he  speaks  his  thoughts, 
meditatively  serious,  as  befits  a  great  soul  assuming 
life's  heavy  responsibilities.  A  lovely  melody  con- 
tentedly expresses  his  prophetic  vision.     This  contem- 

—41— 


plative,  serene  mood,  suggestive  of  youth's  untroubled, 
confident  outlook  upon  the  future,  is  broken  into  by  an 
underlying,  march-like  theme  of  fate,  almost  monotone 
in  character,  as  if  hinting  of  the  restlessness  of  later 
years.  In  increasing  intensity  it  typifies,  by  muffled 
beat,  the  world's  onward  march  in  which  he,  like  all 
others,  must  join.  But  always,  thro  all  the  years  to 
come,  while  his  feet  tramp  to  the  steady  rhythm,  he 
keeps  in  his  heart  the  soulful  melody  of  his  youth, 
which  sings  and  sings;  sometimes  sweetly,  breathing 
hope  and  faith,  and  "All  is  well;"  sometimes  in  strong 
triumphant  outburst,  exclaiming  success.  In  final 
dying  strains  it  whispers,  in  reminiscent  tones,  the 
melody  of  youth  with  its  fulfilled  promise;  and  sings, 
to  the  end,  of  the  vision  that  gave  him  "music  all  the 
way." 

MacDowell  played  a  most  exacting  and  important 
role  in  the  march  of  life,  winning  enthusiastic  praise 
and  warmest  admiration  from  all  observers.  In  the 
interest  of  some  not  well  acquainted  with  his  heroic 
life,  which  he  dedicated  to  the  cause  of  "Art  for  Art's 
sake  only,"  a  brief  biography  is  here  inserted.  Oftimes 
when  I  have  spoken  much  of  his  great  achievements, 
my  audience  has  regretted  that  I  have  not  told  more  of 
him.  Years  back  in  the  past,  his  grandfather,  Alexander 
MacDowell,  was  born  of  Scotch-Irish  parents  in  Belfast, 
Ireland.  Later  he  came  over  to  New  York,  and  there 
married  a  countrywoman,  named  Sarah  Thompson. 
They  had  one  son,  Thomas.  Years  after,  Frances 
Knapp,  an  American  woman  of  English  birth,  became 
his  wife.  To  them  on  the  18th  day  of  December,  1861, 
in  a  home  now  destroyed  by  commercial  progress,  220 
Clinton  Street,  New  York,  was  born  Edward  Alexander 
MacDowell,  named  for  father  and  grandfather.  This 
heritage  of  ancestral  racial  mixtures  proved  an  endowed 
legacy  of  potential  influence  and  permeated  the  character 
of  his  whole  life. 

—42— 


For  several  years  Edward  was  just  the  genuine 
article  called  boy,  fond  of  out-door  life,  delighting  in  all 
sports.  He  bore  none  of  the  earmarks  of  an  abnormal 
prodigy,  tho  at  an  early  age  he  exhibited  signs  of  several 
talents.  His  grandfather  had  been  a  Quaker,  and 
careers  of  Art,  were  not,  in  the  opinion  of  that  time, 
good  for  the  soul.  Consequently,  when  his  son  Thomas 
displayed  a  special  skill  for  painting,  it  was  too  sinful 
to  be  indulged — so  the  talent  reluctantly  repressed 
in  him  was  handed  down  to  his  son  Edward,  and  by 
him  considerably  developed.  Edward  was  also  an 
insatiable  reader  of  books,  particularly  of  fairy-lore, 
legendary  literature,  in  all  of  which,  in  later  years,  he 
became  a  recognized  authority.  He  loved  to  write 
poetry  and  composed  many  lovely  bits,  using  them  to 
prefix  his  music.  These  poems  are  now  published 
separately  in  an  attractive  little  book.  It  is  said  that 
his  school  books  were  quite  plentifully  and  uniquely 
decorated,  the  margins  of  their  pages  being  literally 
covered  with  samples  of  momentary  inspirations  of 
poetry  and  drawing.  Happily,  best  of  all,  he  gave 
decided  indications  of  musical  talent,  tho  it  has  been 
told  he  quite  frequently  went  to  his  music  lessons  with 
dirty  hands,  just  Hke  any  ordinary  boy  coming  from 
school  to  his  music  teacher.  As  you  see,  his  versatility 
was  at  times  almost  an  inconvenience,  for  as  he  grew 
up  he  could  not  decide  which  career  to  choose. 

When  about  eight  years  old  he  was  given  piano 
lessons  by  Mr.  Juan  Buitrago — doubtless  his  first 
teacher,  and  later  was  placed  with  Paul  Desvernine. 
Then  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  receive  some  in- 
struction from  Carreno,  the  beloved  pianist  so  sorely 
missed  from  our  concert  platform  of  today.  She  was 
of  great  assistance  and  inspiration  to  MacDowell  in  his 
boyhood;  and  in  future  years,  by  playing  his  music  upon 
her  programs  everywhere,  did  much  to  make  it  known  to 

—  {?,— 


the  public.  When  he  reached  the  age  of  fifteen  his 
parents  decided  he  must  commence  to  study  system- 
atically. According  to  the  custom  then  deemed  neces- 
sary, now  no  longer  considered  desirable,  of  going  to 
Europe  in  order  to  complete  musical  education,  his 
mother  took  him  abroad.  He  easily  and  successfully 
passed  entrance  examinations  to  the  Conservatory  of 
Paris,  and  became  a  pupil  of  Marmontel  in  piano  and 
Savard  in  theory  and  composition. 

Please  observe  he  was  "going  at"  his  study  in  the 
right  way,  and  knew  that  just  taking  piano  lessons 
would  never  make  him  a  musician.  Struggles  with 
various  knotty  problems  now  seriously  confronted 
him.  Rules,  generations  old,  of  pedantry,  routined 
conservatism,  ultra-arbitrary  methods,  all  re-acted  dis- 
couragingly  upon  MacDov/ell's  untrammelled,  spontan- 
eous temperament  and  caused  several  changes  of 
location  and  teachers,  before  the  right  atmosphere  was 
found. 

From  Paris,  from  Stuttgart,  on  to  Wiesbaden  he 
searched — working  a  summer  in  this  last  named  town, 
under  the  famous  pedagogue,  Louis  Ehlert.  It  was  he 
who  wished  Von  Bulow  to  accept  MacDowell  as  a 
pupil,  but  who  declined,  remarking  "he  could  not  waste 
any  time  on  an  American  boy." 

During  this  period  of  unrest,  he  gave  much  time  to 
drawing  and  his  meritorious  work  attracted  the  interest 
of  eminent  artists,  who,  by  flattering  ofifers  of  future 
training,  very  nearly  succeeded  in  robbing  us  of  our 
promising  composer.  His  mother's  influence  deter- 
mined his  ultimate  choice  of  a  life  work  in  favor  of 
music  and  multitudes  of  people  render  her  grateful 
thanks  that  he  finally  decided  to  paint  with  "brush 
dipped  in  harmonies  rather  than  colors." 

—44— 


Incidentally,  lasting  tribute  should  be  paid  this 
lovely,  sweet-faced  mother,  v/ho  could  understand  her 
boy  so  well,  and,  with  infinite  patience  and  sympathy, 
could  so  unerringly  direct  his  footsteps.  The  world 
would  be  seriously  handicapped  without  the  mighty 
power  of  its  mothers'  songs  of  inspiration,  courage,  love. 
The  famous  big-hearted  mother,  Schumann-Heink 
has  summed  up  motherhood  in  apt  phrase,  "When 
God  found  he  could  not  attend  to  all  the  little  details  of 
this  world,  he  made  mothers." 

No  conscientious  effort  is  ever  lost;  an  apparently 
fruitless  season  is  really  the  most  productive,  for  it 
signifies  the  implanting  of  seed  in  a  receptive  mind. 
The  dark  hour  of  its  underground  life  often  seems 
long  and  despairing.  Suddenly,  some  element,  often 
quite  trivial  to  superficial  perception,  pierces  thro  the 
surface  soil,  nourishes  the  seed,  and  lo,  all  at  once  the 
green  root  fairly  shoots  up  into  full  grown  plant,  matured 
for  harvesting.  This  vexatious  period  of  earnest 
thoughts,  but  disappointing  results  thro'  which  Mac- 
Dowell  passed,  was  like  a  seed-time,  forcing  upon  him 
the  great  importance  of  a  thorough  "within  acquaint- 
ance," vitally  essential  to  the  accomplishment  of  per- 
fect self-advancement.  At  the  same  time  he  was 
being  provided  with  an  external  equipment  of  extra- 
ordinary technique;  also  a  broad  foundation  of  a  com- 
plete knowledge  of  the  theory  of  music.  The  soil  was 
constantly  growing  more  fertile,  and  at  last  a  ray  of 
sunshine  brightened  his  disheartened  hopes. 

It  appeared  in  the  guise  of  a  performance  of  the 
well  known  "Tschaikowsky  Concerto"  in  B  flat  minor, 
given  by  the  pianist  Nicholas  Rubinstein,  brother  of 
the  famous  Anton.  This  style  of  performance  repre- 
sented to  him  the  epitome  of  the  standards  and  methods 
he  had  previously  tho'  vainly  sought.     All  former  un- 

—45— 


certainty  vanished.  At  length  his  highest  anticipations 
were  fulfilled  in  the  excellent  Conservatory  at  Frankfort- 
on-Main  and  the  year,  1879,  saw  him  ideally  settled 
there  with  Joachim  Raff  in  composition  and  Karl  Hey- 
mann  in  piano.  Both  instructors  v/ere,  pedagogically, 
pillars  of  strength  and  ability,  and  their  requirements 
and  expectations  of  the  new  pupil  were  most  exacting 
and  exhaustive.  Both  men  were  exceedingly  interested 
in  his  exceptional  talent  and  greatly  loved  him  personal- 
ly. In  consequence,  the  following  few  years,  MacDowell 
thrived  luxuriantly  in  an  atmosphere  of  warmest  sym- 
pathy, idyUic  surroundings  and  congenial  associates. 

Those  were  years,  productive  not  only  of  splendid 
pianistic,  but  of  prolific  creative  results.  During  this 
period,  which  might  be  termed  formative  or  imitative, 
he  composed  much  interesting  music.  Probably  the 
best  known  works  are  the  "First  and  Second  Modern 
Suites;"  "Prelude  and  Fugue,"  for  piano-forte;  th2 
"First  Concerto"  in  A  minor  for  piano  and  orchestra, 
now  quite  frequently  used  by  foremost  concert  pianists; 
two  poems,  "Hamlet  and  OpheUa"  and  "Lancelot  and 
Elaine"  for  orchestra;  two  opus  numbers  of  very  tuneful 
pieces  for  piano,  four  hands;  and  several  songs. 

MacDowell  has  often  been  called  a  "tone-poet," 
or  "tone-painter."  He,  himself,  admitted  "making 
use"  when  composing  "of  all  the  suggestion  of  tone- 
painting  possible,"  and  wove  into  the  harmonies  of 
his  music  his  love  of  the  picturesque  and  delineative. 
He  re-incarnated  it,  so  to  speak,  with  his  pictorial 
talent,  a  talent  his  conscience  forbade  him  to  waste. 
Raff  also  is  classified  a  tone  delineator,  so  there  existed 
between  master  and  pupil  a  close  bond  of  marked  simi- 
larity and  rautuahty  of  interests.  The  death  of  Raff 
in  1882,  was  a  deep  shock  and  grief  to  MacDowell, 
from  which  his  strong  ^emotional  nature  was  slow  re- 
covering. 

—46— 


Luckily  about  this  time  he  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  musicians'  patron  saint,  Liszt,  and  played  for  him, 
among  other  things,  his  "First  Concerto."  The  composer 
afterwards  dedicated  this  work  to  his  generous  bene- 
factor in  grateful  appreciation.  The  unstinted  approval 
of  Liszt  was  a  most  advantageous  ''Sesame,"  opening  up 
to  him  many  pubUc  performances  of  high  honor  not 
easily  procurable  and  entailing  impartial  plaudits  from 
the  German  musical  public.  Indeed  many  nationalities 
have  learned  to  love  MacDowell's  music. 

Unfortunately,  pecuniary  remuneration  was  not  as 
plentiful  as  required.  MacDowell  never  so  long  as  he 
lived,  condescended  to  produce  a  "pot-boiler,"  but 
faithfully  and  tenaciously  cherished  his  idealic  standard 
of  Art.  Therefore  he  found  it  impossible  to  accumu- 
late material  wealth.  His  mind,  however,  was  enriched 
with  perfect  satisfaction  and  sweet  contentment,  riches 
of  priceless  value,  of  which  no  one  could  deprive  him. 
With  his  poet's  nature,  he  was  building  himself  a  world 
of  romance,  the  quintessence  of  beauty,  and  was  dwell- 
ing therein,  a  romantic,  in  peaceful  exclusion  of  outer 
disturbances. 

Meanwhile,  unbeknown  to  him,  the  Fates  were 
busily  determining  his  destiny.  The  thread  of  human 
life  was  being  spun,  and  twisted,  and  twined  into  a 
marvelous  design  of  incomparable  texture.  In  the 
hands  of  the  Fates  let  us,  for  a  few  years,  safely  leave 
our  hero,  hopefully  dreaming  and  curiously  speculating, 
as  almost  every  one  does,  upon  the  unknown  future. 

The  Fates  know  that  no  romance  is  complete  that 
does  not  include  a  woman.  So  at  their  command  the 
thread  of  destiny  must  now  be  trailed  clear  across  the 
ocean,  and  the  scene  of  our  story  must  temporarily 
be  changed  and  laid  in  a  little  exclusive  town— called 
Waterford,  Connecticut.     The  object  of  our  search  is  a 

—47— 


new  and  exceedingly  interesting  character,  Miss  Marian 
Nevins,  who  is  now  introduced  to  the  reader  as  our 
heroine.  She  was  born  (the  exact  year  we  considerately 
refrain  from  mentioning)  in  one  of  those  picturesque, 
old  fashioned  New  England  houses,  so  peculiarly 
fascinating  and  charmingly  attractive. 

Houses  in  that  part  of  the  country  are  historical 
land  marks,  the  owners  highly  valuing  their  age,  and 
the  number  of  generations  they  have  been  in  the  same 
family.  Miss  Nevins  was  the  eighth  generation  to  be 
born  in  her  old  family  home.  As  most  of  the  houses  are 
generations  old,  and  each  generation  has  made  some 
addition  or  improvement  as  the  family  or  modern  way 
of  living  necessitated,  their  style  of  architecture  is 
often  very  irregular,  but  decidedly  alluring  and  attrac- 
tive. The  interiors  are  especially  inviting,  with  im- 
mense hospitable  fire-places  and  heirloom  furnishings. 
It  is  a  genuine  pleasure  to  wander  around  one  of  these 
homes,  tho  you  need  not  be  surprised  to  find  you  need 
a  guide  to  pilot  the  way.  You  are  apt  to  find  it  puzzling, 
and  your  sense  of  direction  slightly  mixed.  Think  of 
the  secrets,  the  romance-s,  the  thrilling  tales  of  love  and 
death,  those  silent  walls  might  reveal,  could  they  but 
speak!  What  chapters  of  history,  what  tragedies  and 
comedies  have  been  inscribed  upon  their  memories! 

Marian  was  the  eldest  of  six  children,  so  undoubtedly 
received  considerable  experience  in  assuming  responsi- 
bihties,  one  which  was  to  prove  valuable  to  her  in  days 
to  come.  Like  our  hero,  our  heroine  decided  to  go  to 
Europe  for  further  musical  education,  and  by  queer  co- 
incidence she  too  went  to  Frankfort-on-Main,  expecting 
to  study  with  Clara  Schumann.  Here,  she  also  was 
confronted  with  meaningless  red-tape,  for  Frau  Schu- 
mann, regardless  of  the  efficiency  of  an  applicant,  in- 
sisted upon  preparatory  instruction  of  a  year  or  so  with 
one  of  her  daughters.     As  Miss  Nevins   had  akeady 

—48— 


acquired  a  very  thorough  foundational  training  of  several 
years  from  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Roger  Perkins,  of  Camden, 
S.  C,  a  most  excellent  musician,  who  after  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  the  Civil  War  had  come  North  to  live,  she  re- 
fused to  spend  so  much  time  futilely.  In  an  interview 
later  with  Raff,  whom  she  consulted  for  advice,  he 
unreservedly  recommended  MacDowell  as  a  most 
competent  instructor. 

This  seems  an  opportune  moment  to  repeat  an 
interesting  bit  of  hearsay,  concerning  prospective 
teacher  and  pupil.  I  do  not  vouch  for  its  truth,  it  may 
all  have  been  mere  gossip  a  "little  bird  told  me,"  but 
it  has  been  said  that  neither  MacDowell  nor  Miss  Nevins 
was  overly  pleased  (at  that  time)  with  the  arrangement 
suggested  by  Raff.  He  was  not  eager  for  American 
pupils,  because  they  did  not  work  seriously  enough,  and 
were  always  seeking  the  "short  cut"  to  knowledge;  she 
was  disappointed  for  she  had  not  traveled  the  long 
distance  to  Europe  to  study  with  an  American  teacher. 
Notwithstanding  objections,  the  arrangement  was  ef- 
fected. 

For  several  years  MacDowell  preserved  the  role 
of  an  earnest,  painstaking  teacher,  promoting  to  his 
best  ability  the  musical  advancement  of  Miss  Nevins, 
while  she  proved  to  be,  contrary  to  his  fears,  an  ex- 
ceptionally apt  and  talented  pupil.  Work  was  a  serious, 
important  problem  to  each  one. 

Happily  Time,  true  to  his  reputation,  proved  a  great 
healer,  and  at  the  end  of  four  years,  both  showed  a 
decided  change  of  heart.  Just  when  the  relationship 
of  teacher  and  pupil  became  that  of 

"Lover"  and  "Sweetheart" 

"the  little  bird"  has  never  told,  except  to  intimate  that 
the  two  most  concerned  did  not  seem  to  realize  the 

—49— 


transformation  until  the  time  arrived  for  Miss  Nevins  to 
return  to  America.  He  may  have  hinted  however,  that 
probably  every  one  else  around  them  had  known  con- 
ditions for  sometime,  as  the  people  most  concerned  are 
the  last  ones  in  the  world  to  discover  what  is  an  open 
secret  to  all  others.  You  know  the  whole  world  loves 
a  lover,  and  every  one  claims  a  right  to  watch  him. 
He  is  quite  public  property,  yet  luckily  in  blissful  ignor- 
ance of  the  fact. 

How  adorably  sly  the  little  God  Cupid  can  be! 
What  pranks  he  and  his  tiny  messengers  do  play  upon 
innocent  people  with  their  well-primed,  sure-aimed 
arrows !  Their  results  are  sometimes  slow,  sometimes 
quick,  but  usually  sure,  and  the  ways  and  means  of 
accomplishing  them  so  effectively  concealed  that  the 
victims  are  quite  unaware  of  danger.  Most  unob- 
trusively do  these  agents  transact  their  errands,  and 
quite  blind,  for  the  time  being,  do  they  make  their 
victims. 

Therefore  it  is  not  at  all  surprising  that  Miss  Nevins, 
generally  a  most  alert,  wide  awake  person,  never  even 
dreamed  of  their  efforts  in  her  behalf,  nor  imagined  for 
a  moment  that  the  Fates  had  issued  orders  to  God 
Cupid  to  place  her  name  upon  his  list  and  "get  busy." 
In  obedience  to  the  command  Cupid  probably  had 
consulted  his  waiting  list  of  names;  had  decided  the 
name  of  MacDowell  v/as  a  substantial  impressive  one; 
had  heard  its  possessor  bore  extraordinary  qualifications; 
had  concluded  both  candidates  v/ere  exceptionally 
well  mated  so  had  dispatched  his  invisible  messengers 
to  them,  in  order  to  make  preparation  for  speedy  ful- 
filment of  plans.  Moreover  Cupid  had  used  much  dis- 
cretion in  the  execution  of  his  plans.  For  four  years 
he  had  allowed  thern  many  opportunities  to  become 
intimately  acquainted  and  to  cultivate  a  most  con- 
genial   companionship,    based    upon    mutual    interests 

—50— 


and  ideals.  Wisely  he  had  builded  for  them  the  only 
foundation  upon  which  true  lasting  wedded  structure 
should  be  erected. 

Very  noticeably  pervading  MacDowell's  music  is 
a  quality,  which  lends  it  an  indescribable  charm  and 
power  of  unmistakable  appeal.  This  quality  is  most 
appropriately  called  "a  heart  interest,"  without  which 
music  is  nothing.  No  phase  of  human  emotion  seems 
to  have  escaped  this  composer's  sympathetic  under- 
standing. Much  of  his  wisdom  was  gained  by  personal 
experience,  consequently  acquired  from  a  most  practical 
teacher.  Therefore  we  do  not  wonder  that  he  could 
depict  so  well  in  the  music  of  the  "Lover"  the  various 
stages  of  emotions,  which  doubtless  exist  in  the  mind 
of  a  peculiar  species  during  that  particular  period  of 
floundering  uncertainty. 

Very  beautifully  the  "Lover"  informs  us  his  quest 
is  gravely  important  for  the  reward  he  covets  is  the 
most  valuable  gift  of  God  to  man,  a  good  wife.  "Long- 
ingly" his  thoughts  are  turned  towards  the  prize  he 
earnestly  seeks.  Emotion  so  over-strained  he  cannot 
long  endure ;  man-like  what  he  wishes  he  must  have,  he 
"passionately"  declares.  Somehow  this  mood  is  not 
satisfying,  it  quickly  vanishes  and  gives  way  to  one 
more  irresistible.  He  "sweetly"  pleads  his  cause, 
then,  lest  his  masculine  dignity  and  importance  be 
undervalued,  he  rather  "expansively"  submits  the 
merits  of  his  side  of  the  case.  If  you  will  notice,  how- 
ever, it  is  done  in  pianissimo  tones  as  if  he  were  not 
quite  sure  of  the  strength  of  his  arguments.  Alas, 
an  occasional  doubt  (is  it  possible  of  his  own  unworth- 
iness),  creeps  in,  his  confidence  seems  to  waver,  he 
"questioningly"  ponders,  in  hesitancy  apparently  in- 
creasing, he  grows  "sadly"  despondent.  Gradually  he 
recovers   an    optimistic    spirit,   regains   his   confidence 

—51— 


and  decides  to  put  his  fate  to  the  test.  This  determina- 
tion once  declared,  his  normal  condition  is  restored 
and  "serenely"  he  continues  his  day  dreams,  calmly 
hopeful  of  a  happy  ending  to  them. 

Now  tho  MacDowell  found  the  mind  of  man  easily 
read,  did  not  even  he  confront  a  changeless  puzzle  in 
the  mind  of  woman !  Perhaps  even  for  him,  it  remained 
unsolvable,  sphinx  like!  Apparently  he  dared  not 
venture  to  translate  so  freely,  even  in  music,  the 
thoughts  that  "simply,"  "sweetly"  yet  oft  "passionately" 
pass  thru  the  mind  of  the  "Sweetheart."  Was  it  pre- 
monition of  a  future  loaded  with  responsibilities  and 
endless  vicissitudes  that  makes  the  music  of  the  "Sweet- 
heart" seem  permeated  with  some  force  stronger  than 
that  of  the  "Lover"?  Is  it  the  strength,  untold  but 
implied,  that  is  always  given  a  good  woman,  to  preserve 
her  "pure  and  true  as  blades  of  steel;"  that  encases 
her  in  an  unassailable  armor  of  self-sacrifice  and  faith- 
ful devotion,  and  securely  fortifies  her  to  meet  with 
courageous  endurance,  any  need,  no  matter  how  great. 
To  take  much  and  be  content  with  the  present,  is  man- 
like. Knowing  she  must  give  much,  'tis  woman-like 
to  peer  dimly  into  the  future  and  listen  for  its  voice  of 
promise  coming  down  to  her  in  faintest  echo,  "very 
soft  and  as  from  a  distance." 

Was  it  mere  coincidence  or  intention  that  the  music 
of  the  "Lover"  and  "Sweetheart"  is  in  the  same  key, 
and  therefore  the  dominating  chord  of  one  is  like  that 
of  the  other?  Rather  may  we  not  believe  it  was  be- 
cause the  ears  of  both  were  attuned  to  the  same  pitch. 

So  both  heard  as  tho  in  kinship  one  theme,  the 
theme  of  love;  and  listened  to  the  "sweetest  story 
ever  told"  in  ages  past  or  ages  to  come.  Never  has  it 
been  told  more  beautifully  than  in  the  lovely  music  of 

"An  Old  Love  Story." 
—52— 


"Music,"  they  say,  "is  love  in  search  of  a  word." 
What  words  fail  to  express,  it  can.  A  heart's  desire 
is  "simply  and  tenderly"  disclosed  in  the  soulful  strains 
of  this  charming  miniature.  "Very  softly"  its  music 
speaks,  sometimes  as  a  voice,  sometimes  as  an  accom- 
paniment. "As  soft  as  possible"  it  whispers  of  happi- 
ness too  deep  for  spoken  words  to  mar  the  golden 
silence;  it  bespeaks  a  reverential  wonderment  mingled 
with  a  joyous  knowledge  that  henceforth  their  Uves 
would  have  not  only  "music  all  the  way"  but  love. 

Do  you,  reader,  dare  to  doubt  the  power  of  love, 
or  place  a  limit  upon  its  possibilities?  Should  you 
by  any  chance  be  such  a  skeptic,  learn  of  the  love  story 
of  Edward  MacDowell  and  Marian  Nevins.  There  is 
no  more  notable  love  idyl  in  the  history  of  the  world. 
Let  it  remain  with  you  "to  keep  alive  in  your  heart 
the  glories  of  life  as  you  trudge  over  the  hill  of  time 
into  the  golden  valley  of  the  great  sunset." 

Now  perhaps  the  liberty  of  romancing  "without 
license"  has  been  taken  in  relating  this  story.  It  may 
be  MacDowell  was  not  the  lover  whose  love  secrets 
have  just  been  exposed,  nor  this  particular  sweetheart 
his  pupil,  Marian  Nevins.  Perhaps  she  did  not  hear 
an  old  love  story  told  in  music's  sweetness,  but  guessed 
its  truthful  message  written  by  him  in  words  of  poetry, 

"And  hand  grasps  hand  at  parting 
Heart  finds  heart  in  song 
Unspoken  love  sing  tenderly 
Twill  last  as  life  is  long." 

This  may  not  be  their  romance  at  all,  only,  as  was 
forwarned,  a  fanciful  tale,  liable  to  happen  to  most  any 
one.  No  positive  verification  of  it  is  herein  offered. 
However,  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  are  still  earth- 
bound  and  demand  plain,  unvarnished  facts,  the  follow- 
ing undisputable  assertions  are  vouchsafed;  that  Miss 

—73— 


Nevins  returned  to  her  home  in  America,  that  the 
next  year  MacDowell  followed,  remained  a  month, 
married  his  former  pupil  and  carried  her  back  with 
him  to  Europe.  These  events  occurred  in  June  and 
July,  1884. 

Outward  appearances,  at  least,  all  tended  to  con- 
firm our  story  as  truthful,  and  moreover  again  proved 
that  "where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way."  Most 
every  one  knows  that  "they  lived  happily  ever  after," 
even  tho  life  sent  them  vicissitudes  enough  to  over- 
come the  most  courageous  hearts.  "God  gave  them 
love,"  "God  gave  them  youth,"  therefore  they  had  no 
fear  of  the  world. 

After  brief  sojourns  in  London,  Paris,  Frankfort, 
they  settled,  for  1885-86,  in  the  quiet  town  of  Wies- 
baden. Later  in  1887,  MacDowell  bought  a  tiny 
house,  just  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  adjacent  to 
the  woods,  overlooking  the  Rhine  and  including  about 
half  an  acre  of  land.  Here  he  devoted  his  entire 
energy  and  time  to  composition,  increasing  his  fame, 
but  not  to  any  appreciable  extent,  the  exchequer. 
Fortunately  his  wife  had  a  little  money;  still  more 
fortunately  she  was  of  a  practical  turn  of  mind.  Tho 
unacustomed  to  many  of  her  new  duties,  she  proved 
an  expert  manager  and  made  it  possible  for  them  to 
remain  there  nearly  four  years. 

In  previous  mention  of  compositions  belonging  to 
this  period  abroad,  I  neglected  to  include  in  the  list  the 
quite  famous  "Witches  Dance."  Besides,  there  are  two 
perfectly  delightful  books  of  sketches.  One  is  called 
"Six  Poems  after  Heine,"  the  poet  whose  poems  Mac- 
Dowell considered  the  most  singable  of  that  time.  The 
musical  setting  given  them  is  very  melodic  and  rythmic, 
easily  comprehended.  This  opus  contains  the  widely- 
played  "Scotch  Poem"  loved  for  its  mood  of  pathos  and 

—54— 


tragedy.  The  other  book  is  composed  of  "Six  Idyls," 
charmingly  delineative  of  nature  phases.  The  "Flute" 
is  especially  dainty  with  its  tinge  of  wood  freshness. 
None  offer  technical  difficulties.  A  romantic  flavor  is 
attached  to  this  opus.  Mrs.  MacDowell  had  suffered  a 
severe  illness  and  was  slowly  recovering.  She  felt  that 
her  husband  was  giving  more  attention  to  her  than  to  his 
music,  so  suggested  he  write  a  piece  of  music  every 
day  for  a  week.  The  "Six  Idyls,"  were  the  result  of 
his  promise. 

Is  it  not  true  that  nearly  every  famous  man  of  Art 
or  Science  has  needed  and  been  aided  by  a  good  woman 
before  he  has  accompHshed  his  greatest  work?  An 
old  conumdrum  queries — "Why  have  men  greater 
creative  power  than  women?"  The  answer  is  equally 
familiar.  "Because  woman  has  been  directly  or  in- 
directly man's  constant  source  of  inspiration." 

For  practically  a  quarter  of  a  century,  MacDowell 
was  divinely  blessed  with  a  companion,  whose  mentality 
equalled  his;  whose  musicianship  placed  her  upon  a 
plane  of  understanding  sufficiently  high  to  enable  her 
to  comprehend  and  promote  his  genius;  whose  forceful 
personality,  energetic,  practical  nature  was  just  the 
complement  of  tonic  and  stimulant  necessary  to  counter- 
act his  own  super-sensitive,  rather  easily  depressed 
and  naturally  retiring  disposition.  Without  her  as  a 
source  of  inspiration  one  doubts  if  MacDowell  would 
have  gained  such  starry  heights.  Furthermore  it  is  a 
great  satisfaction  to  be  able  to  offer  this  remarkable 
example  of  marital  felicity  in  contradiction  to  the  oft 
repeated  assertion  that  domestic  happiness  is  in- 
compatible with  artistic  temperaments.  Those  early 
wedded  years  were  very  happy  ones;  the  hours  busily 
employed,  with  a  few  leisure  ones  passed  in  needed 
recreation  of  simple  pastimes. 


Some  parts  of  Germany  are  very  beautiful,  con- 
sequently MacDowell  lived  in  the  midst  of  lovely 
natural  surroundings.  His  spirit  thrived  by  close 
contact  with  Mother  Nature;  her  beauty  reacting  upon 
him  like  healing  balm  to  a  tired  soul.  Nature  every- 
where is  filled  with  rhythms  and  melodies  if  one  but 
delve  deep  enough  to  find  them.  Our  tone-poet  was 
singularly  endowed  with  senses  acutely  attuned  to 
her  oft  unrecognized  music.  To  this  dear  old  mother 
he  confided  his  thoughts  and  she  in  return  whispered 
to  him  sweetest  of  strains,  lovely  harmonies  which  he 
gratefully  named  in  her  honor.  "In  the  Woods," 
"To  the  Moonhght,"  "Silver  Clouds,"  "The  Blue  Bell," 
"Clair  de  Lune,"  "In  the  Forest,"  "To  a  Wild  Rose," 
"In  Autumn,"  "Starlight,"  "To  a  Water-Lily,"  "To 
the  Sea,"  "The  Joy  of  Autumn,"  "Summer  Song," 
*  A  Humming  Bird,"  are  some  of  the  dainty  bits,  charm- 
ing musical  phases  MacDowell  gleaned  from  the  heart 
of  her. 

Mrs.  MacDowell's  married  life  was  one  of  un- 
broken complete  devotion  to  her  husband's  ideals, 
of  self-sacrifice  and  self-effacement,  as  generous  and 
unselfish  as  his — tho  the  world  has  been  slower  learning 
of  it.  Very  soon  after  their  marriage  she  realized  that 
their  "fairy  palace"  was  not  spacious  enough  to  quarter 
two  active  musicians.  Then  too  there  was  no  one  to 
attend  to  other  essentials  of  living.  Possessing  a  strong 
determination  and  a  mind  of  her  own,  moreover  the 
faculty  of  "quickly  making  it  up,"  she  wisely  reasoned 
that  her  husband's  musical  power  being  creative  was 
much  more  valuable  than  her  own  pianistic  ability, 
however  promising  and  that  the  fruition  of  his  labors 
would  be  known  and  loved  by  all  posterity.  Therefore 
she  unselfishly  decided,  tho  much  against  his  wishes 
to  give  up  her  own  ambitions  and  bend  every  effort 
of  that  astounding  energy  which  to  this  day  is  a  marvel 


to  all  who  know  her,  to  further  his  artistic  development 
and  to  preserve  his  physical  condition.  The  abandon- 
ment of  her  own  promising  career,  after  so  many  years 
of  training,  is  only  one  striking  example  of  her  wonderful 
strength  of  character.  There  could  be  cited  many 
others. 

Praise  and  fame  are  very  comforting  to  the  ear, 
but  not  sustaining  to  the  flesh.  Both  the  former  poured 
in  plentifully,  but  greater  pecuniary  remuneration  now 
became  imperative.  Alluring  inducements  were  made 
to  MacDowell  to  return  to  his  native  land,  and  so 
persistent  were  they,  that  the  year  1888,  found  him 
comfortably  settled  in  Boston — famous  immediately 
because  of  so  much  European  prestige,  besieged  by 
pupils  and  awarded  enthusiastic  recognition  for  his 
compositions.  Altogether  the  highly  cultured  atmos- 
phere of  Boston  was  just  the  suitable  one  to  appeal  to  a 
genius  of  lofty  attainments. 

Concert  work  was  always  a  trial  to  him  and  only 
force  of  circumstances  prevented  entire  elimination 
of  public  appearances.  His  playing  of  accepted  classics 
was  strange  and  confounding  to  conservatives  of  firm 
convictions.  It  amazed,  electrified,  but  did  not  uni- 
versally please.  He  was  a  virtuoso  of  astounding 
dynamics,  but  his  renditions  were  noticeably  marked 
by  unheard  of  qualities  for  those  days.  It  might  have 
been  called  ultra-modern  in  comparison  and  the  tonal 
effects  produced  by  his  originality  of  style  were  not 
unreservedly  received  or  wholly  approved  until  he  prac- 
tically abandoned  the  performance  of  any  music  but 
his  own.  As  a  composer-pianist  he  enraptured  and 
completely  captivated  his  audiences,  both  by  the  music 
and  his  dramatic  interpretations.  Programs  of  his 
own  works  were  demanded  all  over  the  eastern  and 
middle  west  country  and  for  almost  ten  years  he  periodi- 
cally concertized.     Mention  must  be  made  here  of  the 

—57— 


large  number  of  compositions  completed  during  Mac- 
Dowell's  time  in  Boston.  Included  among  them  are 
the  well  known  "Concert  Etude,"  the  "Marionettes," 
"Twelve  Studies,"  the  famiUar  "Woodland  Sketches," 
many  songs,  the  "Indian"  suite  for  orchestra,  the 
splendid  "Second  Concerto,"  and  greatest  of  all  two 
sonatas,  "Tragica"  and  "Eroica."  In  the  midst  of 
unsurpassed  gratification  and  prosperity  attending  eight 
years  of  Boston  life,  when  his  magnetic  personality  and 
over-towering  genius  had  made  him  a  centre  of  musical 
activities,  MacDowell,  after  long  consideration,  decided 
to  accept  the  repeated  proposal  of  Columbia  University, 
New  York,  to  take  the  professorship  of  its  department  of 
music.  The  regular  income  would  banish  all  monetary 
problems,  thus  relieving  him  of  much  anxiety  for  the 
future  of  himself  and  wife.  Besides  he  had  long 
cherished  some  specific  views  concerning  pedagogical 
ideas  and  methods,  so  he  entered  in  1896,  upon  his 
new  duties  at  Columbia  highly  elated  at  prospects  of 
unhampered  exposition  of  his  ideals.  He  also  ac- 
cepted the  conductorship  of  the  Mendelssohn  Glee 
Club,  composing  for  its  use  several  splendid  male 
choruses. 

The  future  appeared  most  auspicious.  With  the 
nxost  prodigal  energy  he  labored,  sparing  neither  time 
nor  strength,  until  the  responsibility  of  many  burdens 
grew  overwhelming.  Excessive  over-work,  and,  sadder 
still,  bitter  disappointment,  caused  by  the  lack  of  co- 
operation accorded  his  deeply  cherished  aims  and 
plans  for  the  musical  department  of  Columbia  culmi- 
nated in  his  resignation  from  his  position;  also  in  re- 
sultant nervous  collapse.  During  the  seven  years 
of  terribly  strenuous  life  in  New  York,  days  of  cease- 
less, intemperate  labor,  MacDowell  produced  his 
greatest  compositions. 

But  his  work  of  composing  had  to  be  compressed 
into  brief  vacation  times,  and  under  stress  of  stupendous 

—58— 


concentration.  Lack  of  time  and  unatmospheric  en- 
vironment tragically  handicapped  outpourings  of  spiritual 
creations.  "Back  to  Nature"  was  the  continual  cry  of 
his  starving  soul.  The  call  was  answered.  After  various 
experiments  in  different  locations,  an  idyllic  place  was 
discovered  about  a  mile  outside  the  historic  town  of 
Peterborough,  N.  H.  It  consisted  of  a  farm  of  about 
eighty  acres,  most  of  which  was  densely  wooded. 
Happily  the  price  was  not  prohibitive,  so  the  place 
was  soon  purchased  and  MacDowell  became  a  land 
owner.  Had  it  been  made  to  order,  no  more  beautiful 
spot  could  have  been  found  or  even  desired  The  farm 
meant  to  him  happiness  personified,  too  deep  for  words 
to  express. 

So  he  wrapped  his  joy  around  each  beautiful  note 
and  sent  out  to  the  world  a  musical  message  fairly 
teeming  with  inmost  emotion  and  revealing  the  feeling 
of  peace  that  comes  when  a  vision  dreamed  begins  to 
live  and  endure.     This  wordless  song  he  named 

"A  Deserted  Farm." 

To  me  it  is  his  autobiography,  condensed  into  two 
short  pages  of  manuscript,  a  marvel  of  concentration 
and  elimination,  dramatic  intensity  and  serene  confi- 
dence of  hopes;  a  veritable  musical  embodiment  of 
the  two  supreme  ideals  of  his  own  life. 

Environment  most  poignantly  and  vitally  affected 
MacDowell's  super-sensitive  tendencies.  He  sympa- 
thized with  other  artists  suffering  Hkewise  from  dis- 
tasteful surroundings;  was  keenly  alive  to  the  fact  that 
all  too  frequently  in  proportion  to  the  greatness  of  the 
artist  is  the  smallness  of  his  financial  remuneration. 
That  stern  teacher,  experience,  had  taught  him  only  too 
well  that  the  daily  problem  of  providing  material  ex- 
istence was  generally  a  grinding  struggle  and  meant 


only  too  often  the  smothering  and  final  death  of  the 
spiritual.  Rejoicing  in  the  good  fortune  afforded  him 
by  his  retreat,  a  deep  rooted  altruistic  spirit  fostered 
the  wish  to  assist  others  to  escape,  similarly,  a  little 
while  each  year  from  irksome  toil;  a  generous  heart 
earnestly  desired  to  help  them  find  a  haven  of  rest, 
such  as  his,  with  perfect  silence  and  undisturbed 
leisure   for   development   of   God-given   talents. 

This  philanthropic  thought  in  the  mind  of  Mac- 
Dowell  and  also  that  of  his  wife  (for  she  was  always 
his  helper,  heart  and  soul),  gradually  assumed  the 
form  of  a  definite  purpose,  to  make  his  deserted  farm 
some  day  this  earthly  Paradise  for  creative  artists. 

By  the  term  artists  MacDowell  did  not  mean 
musicians  only,  but  included  representatives  from  all 
arts.  He  beheved  that  artists  were  usually  too  self- 
centered,  contending  that  each  one  would  receive 
immense  benefit  if  more  closely  associated  with  another; 
also  he  strongly  urged  that  each  artist  should  acquire 
sufficient  knowledge  of  the  other's  art  for  intelligent 
comprehension  and  sympathetic  appreciation  of  it. 
Nor  did  he  merely  theorize;  he  practised  what  he 
preached.  As  an  artist  of  extraordinary  versatility 
he  could  speak  with  the  authority  of  self-experience. 

MacDowell  did  not  live  to  see  his  altruistic  hopes 
fulfilled,  but  since  his  death,  his  wife,  by  incredibly 
heroic  personal  efforts,  has  already  made  his  "dream 
come  true,"  and  the  once  deserted  farm  now  holds 
such  a  wonderful  unique  niche  in  the  world  of  American 
Art  that  pages  of  words  cannot  proclaim  half  its  glories. 
The  dream  that  now  lives  and  throbs  so  vitally,  was 
one  of  the  ideals  of  our  greatest  composer. 

There  was  another  one  perhaps  even  greater;  an 
unwavering  faith  in  the  future  of  American  music. 
This  faith  never  faltered     remained  changeless  through- 

— GO— 


out  all  struggle  and  emerged  triumphant  from  every 
ordeal  of  discouragement  and  opposition.  MacDowell 
served  as  a  pioneer  in  the  cause  of  American  music, 
paved  the  way  for  its  coming;  day  after  day  toiled  un- 
rewarded, his  vision  fixed  upon  the  goal  desired.  For 
this  cause  he  sacrificed  all,  and  died  a  martyr's  death. 
No  American  artist  of  today  denies  the  rapidly  ap- 
proaching realization   of  this   dream   of   MacDowelPs. 

Do  you  wonder  that  the  music  of  "The  Deserted 
Farm"  fairly  pulses  with  beats  of  heart  interest;  that 
each  note  is  a  throb  of  love  for  all  humanity  and  his 
beloved  Art;  that  it  vibrates  with  deepest  feeling  and 
translates  into  two  lovely  "motifs"  these  wonderful 
ideals? 

The  first  "motif"  typifies  Peterborough,  the  material 
realization  of  crying  needs  of  mere  physical  existence; 
it  delineates  nature's  environment  demanded  by  an 
artist's  deUcate  temperament  which  is  spiritually  starved 
when  transplanted  from  native  soil,  and  consequently 
stunted  from  fully  developed  growth.  Some  natures 
are  too  ethereal,  too  near  being  God-like,  to  endure 
harsh  contact  with  the  world's  thoughtless  throng. 
MacDowell  was  one  of  these  sacred  beings;  his  complete 
expansion  required  certain  nourishment. 

The  first  theme  consists  of  a  restful  bit  of  melody 
and  indicates,  "with  deep  feeling,"  peacefulness,  per- 
fect care-freedom,  contented  release  from  trammelling 
conventionalities;  its  sweetness  and  serenity  create 
in  the  heart  an  emotion  like  "the  quiet  of  the  strength 
one  gets  from  God  only."  The  music  flows  along  as 
meditatively  as  MacDowell  many  a  time  wandered 
over  hill  and  dale;  lost  in  thoughts  of  how  much  the 
deserted  farm  meant  to  him  and  would  mean  to  others 
like  himself;  rapt  in  visions  of  his  honored  art  and  the 
increasing  public  appreciation  of  her  value.     The  call 

—61— 


of  the  future  American  music  he  clearly  heard;  just  as 
clearly  he  interpreted  that  prophetic  call  and  introduced 
it  as  the  second  theme.  This  opens  with  a  single 
note,  that  forcibly  attracts  and  holds  your  undivided 
attention  and  rings  out  in  resolute  but  repressed  tones, 
clarion-like  yet  softly,  distinctly  penetrating.  It  must 
be  heard  for  it  has  a  message  of  vital  interest  to  impart. 
Straining  our  ears  to  catch  the  sound  of  its  voice,  so  far 
no  more  than  an  echo,  "as  heard  from  afar,"  these 
prophetic  words  are  heard,  "softly"  floating  down; 
"Wait  'twill  come,"  "Work  'twill  come,"  "Just  work, 
just  wait,  'twill  surely  come."  The  sounds  "diminish," 
the  voice  drifts  into  silence,  the  second  theme  dies 
away,  and  the  first  theme  returns.  Once  more  its 
repeated  melody  sings  of  contentment  with  dreams 
of  the  present,  and  unalloyed  hope  of  the  future.  But 
again  the  note  of  prophecy,  still  resolute,  unvanquish- 
able,  rings  to  the  end.  Like  unwavering  faith  it  per- 
sistently sounds  above  a  minor  chord,  denoting  the 
present  sadness,  that  so  few  could  understand  or 
sense  the  significance  of  its  message.  A  finale  of 
intermingled  complete  harmony  reflects  an  illumined 
vision,  a  revivified  spirit,  an  undimmed  trust  in  the 
faith  that  makes  a  dream  come  true. 

Upon  the  knoll  of  one  of  the  gently  sloping  hills 
belonging  to  the  deserted  farm  stood  (and  still  stands), 
a  picturesque,  rambling  farm  house.  The  name  given 
it,  "Hill  Crest,"  was  undoubtedly  suggested  by  its 
location,  which  commanded  a  panoramic  vista  of  charm- 
ing loveliness,  an  ever  changing  mosaic  of  green  hills, 
fertile  pastures,  stately  tall  pines,  beauteous  opalescent 
sky.  The  house,  and  its  connecting  barn  in  true  New 
England  style,  was  some  distance  from  any  neigh- 
boring building,  and  its  view  open  and  far-perspective. 
After  the  smoky,  stifling  atmosphere  of  the  city,  how 
refreshing  and  invigorating  the  country's  prodigal  fresh- 

—62— 


ness  must  have  seemed  to  MacDowell;  how  often  must 
he  have  said,  when  wearied  in  body  and  sore  at  heart, 

"My  thoughts  at  the  end  of  the  long,  long  day 
Fly  over  the  hill  and  far  away." 

"Hill  Crest"  was  remodeled  somewhat  and  enlarged 
by  MacDowell,  the  addition  of  a  music  room  being 
perhaps  the  chief  improvement  made.  There,  in  most 
artistic  surroundings,  the  composer  put  into  tangible 
form  the  marvelous  mysteries  concealed  in  his  brain. 

Still  was  MacDowell  haunted  by  an  unsatisfied 
yearning.  He  desired  even  greater  seclusion,  in  fact 
longed  for  complete  detachment  from  ever)rthing  and 
every  one.  The  craving  to  draw  still  closer  to  the  heart 
of  nature  was  finally  appeased  by  building  a  tiny  "work- 
shop," placed  beyond  the  possibility  of  any  disturbing 
element.  The  building  was  made  of  logs,  grown  and 
cut  from  his  own  estate  and  consisted  of  one  room 
only;  was  protected  in  front  and  on  one  side  by  a  small 
porch  and  so  situated  upon  a  sloping  hillside  as  to 
give  its  supports  the  appearance  of  stilts.  Domed  by 
bluest  of  skies  the  little  house  snugly  nestled  in  a  deep 
pine  grove,  apparently  perched  in  the  tops  of  historic 
trees. 

The  deeper  silence  MacDowell  sought  and  here 
found  was  broken  only  by  the  songs  of  the  birds,  the 
whispering  winds  of  the  pines,  the  "whisk  of  the  leaves." 
To  him  these  sounds  were  the  voices  of  the  fairies,  for 
his  Celtic  imagination  peopled  the  enchanted  woods 
with  the  airy  presences. 

Who  knows  but  what  this  super-sense,  so  subtle 
and  delicate,  may  have  been  a  gift  of  the  fairies.  Surely 
it  must  have  been  an  insight  more  than  human  that 
drew  him  from  the  world  apart  and  inspired  in  him 

—60— 


music  sublime  and  divine  enough  to  have  come  straight 
from  the  spheres  above — floating  out  thro  the  open 
portals  of  Heaven  itself.  Truly  could  MacDowell 
have  said  had  he  ever  been  self-confident,  "I  was  at 
one  with  the  soul  of  things  and  knew  myself  fruitful." 

"From  a  Log  Cabin" 

undoubtedly  emanated  the  inspiration  responsible  for 
the  greatest  creative  period  of  his  life.  During  the 
eight  years  he  was  connected  with  Columbia,  he  com- 
posed unceasingly  and  presented  the  world  with  price- 
less musical  treasures.  These  works  are  all  monuments 
of  stupendous  solidity  and  colossal  dignity,  and  builded 
in  transfiguring  beauty.  The  structure  of  nobility  and 
simplicity,  colored  so  richly  by  originality  and  indi- 
viduality will  withstand  the  most  discriminating  opinion 
of   contemporary   or   posterity. 

Important  compositions  identified  with  this  period 
of  maturity  include  the  well  known  "Sea  Pieces," 
"Fireside  Tales,"  "New  England  Idyls,"  some  lovely 
songs  and  two  unsurpassed  sonatas — the  "Norse" 
and  the  "Keltic." 

The  Log  Cabin  is  now  a  famous  place  and  hundreds 
of  people  journey  yearly  to  view  it.  The  visitor  with 
a  kindred  artist  soul  goes  as  a  pilgrim  to  a  shrine, 
silent  and  reverent  in  worship,  overcome  by  an  emotion 
utterly  unspeakable.  He  feels  indescribably  conscious 
of  the  nearness  of  an  all-pervading  presence  and  over- 
whelmed by  a  deepening  realization  of  the  pure  nobility 
of  a  great  spirit  and  its  far  radiating  mystical  influence. 

The  plaiimess  of  the  little  building  surprises  the 
average  visitor.  The  interior  is  roughly  finished,  the 
furnishings  meagre  as  a  poor  man's  cottage,  including 
only  a  few  chairs,  a  wooden  table  and  couch,  a  few 
pictures  upon  the  walls.     It  is  indeed  just  a  "work-shop." 

—64— 


On  the  mantel  are  some  fire  arms,  historical  relics, 
excavated  by  MacDovvell  himself  while  digging  in  his 
land. 

Attracted  by  the  large  open  fire-place,  the  one  touch 
of  luxurious  comfort  to  be  found  in  the  cabin,  the 
visitor's  glance  is  arrested  and  fascinated  by  an  in- 
scription upon  its  hearth  stone,  evidently  traced  while 
the  cement  was  yet  soft.  The  handwriting  is  that  of 
MacDowell;  and  the  words,  which  one  reads  with  a 
feeling  of  intrusion  upon  an  intimacy  not  intended  for 
public  gaze,  are  the  names  of  himself  and  wife  — 
"Edward  and  Marian."  The  inscription  is  brief,  but  its 
meaning  is  indelibly  significant.  No  greater  homage 
or  loving  tribute  could  have  been  paid  by  lover  to  sweet- 
heart than  this  simple  testimonial  of  perfect  wedded 
union. 

It  is  said  that  no  day  ever  ended  without  a  few 
moments  at  least  being  spent  in  interchange  of  thought. 
Therefore  it  requires  no  stretch  of  the  imagination  to 
see  them,  at  the  close  of  a  toilsome  day  sitting  "By 
Smouldering  Embers,"  dreaming  dreams  together,  for- 
getting disappointments  and  hardships  in  the  comfort 
of  a  great  love,  seeing  visions  in  the  fireUght  "bright 
enough  in  its  dying  color  to  bring  hope  for  each  to- 
morrow." 

Peculiarly  expressive  of  the  Log  Cabin  are  the 
words  of   MacDowell  in  dedication   of  it 

"A  house  of  dreams  untold 
It  looks  out  over  the  whispering  tree-tops 
And  faces  the  setting  sun." 

Reflecting  upon  the  wisdom  found  in  these  words, 
reluctantly  the  visitor  departs  from  the  house  of  dreams, 
awe-bound  as  a  disciple  of  old  who  has  sat  in  learning 

—65— 


at  the  feet  of  a  Master.  Lingeringly  he  descends  the 
moss  covered  stone-steps,  leading  down  to  the  natural 
spring  of  water,  dug  and  walled  by  MacDowell.  If 
not  too  choked  with  emotion  he  may  drink  of  its  cool- 
ness and  then  thoughtfully,  silently  wend  his  way 
over  path  of  wooden  planks,  uneven  and  worn  by  much 
usage.  Along  the  trail  of  ferns  and  flowers,  thro  the 
dense  pine  forest,  on  and  up  he  wanders,  until,  at  last, 
the  open  road  is  reached  and  there  in  front  of  him, 
invitingly  hospitable,  hangs  the  white  swinging  gate 
of  "HiU  Crest." 

No  matter  how  long  the  day,  the  close  of  it  found 
MacDowell  going  home.  For  him  the  swinging  gate 
meant  the  shutting  out  of  all  care,  an  opening  into  great 
happiness.  A  few  steps  farther  up  to  the  crest  of  the 
hill  was  home,  and  as  he  wearily  climbed,  in  his  heart 
he  gratefully,  joyously  sang,  "In  our  home  is  deep  rest." 

"Epilogue" 

"  'Tis  but  as  when  one  layeth 

His  worn  out  robes  away 

And  taking  new  ones — sayeth 
"These  will  I  wear  today!" 

So  putteth  by  the  Spirit 

Lightly  its  garb  of  flesh 

And  passeth  to  inherit 

A  residence  afresh." — Sir  Edwin  Arnold. 

Thus  for  MacDowell  was  "the  garb  of  flesh"  put 
by.  It  had  been  over-burdened,  was  wearied  and 
worn  out.  His  heroic  spirit  heard  a  call,  answered  its 
summons  and  "returned  unto  the  God  who  gave  it." 
Peacefully  he  passed  on  to  another  home  of  rest,  even 
more  perfect  because  eternal;  entered  another  land  of 
greater  promise,  where  the  dreamer  may  pursue  his 
dreams  and  visions  unhindered  by  trials  or  obstacles, 

— GG— 


unmeasured  by  time,  where  all  things  are  possible. 
"He  is  not  dead,  the  Artist  never  dies."  Let  us  not 
think  or  write  the  word  "Finis"  to  MacDowell's  life. 
For  such  as  he  was  it  not,  rather,  but  just  begun? 

It  is  true  a  terrible  un-understandable  tragedy 
hushed  for  earth  his  voice,  and  made  a  whole  world 
grieve  and  mourn  and  wonder  why  "so  many  pitchers  of 
rough  clay  should  prosper  and  the  porcelain  break  in 
two;"  caused  aching  hearts  to  doubt  if  the  price  the 
dreamer  must  always  pay  for  his  dreams,  the  price  of 
life  itself,  were  really  worth  while.  Oh  the  seemingly 
merciless  toll  of  Death! 

But  did  he  toil  in  vain !  Does  one  not  live  "who  dies 
to  win  a  lasting  name !"  Will  not  words  extolling  Mac- 
Dowell's heroic  life  and  tragic  sacrifice  be  ever  in  the 
mouths  of  men;  ever  in  their  hearts  the  sound  of  his 
heavenly  strains?  Will  not  all  musical  humanity- 
nay  more — all  humanity  be  wiser  and  better  for  his 
suffering  and  loss;  will  not  his  memory  be  lastingly 
cherished  in  loving  tribute?  Has  he  not  but  gained 
a  richly  deserved  promotion  and  reached  a  life  of  higher 
service?  God's  messenger  commanded,  "Come  to  the 
life  of  harmonies  inexhaustible,  it  is  tuned  for  thee." 
And  so  he  did  but  venture  out  upon  the  greatest  of  all 
adventures,  passed  thro  the  "Gates  of  Mystery," 
which  in  welcome  swung  wide  open.  Some  one  tells 
us— "For  music  the  very  gate  of  Heaven  stands  ajar." 
If  this  is  true  think  of  the  exaltation  of  that  life  above, 
for  such  as  he. 

And  we — we  have  inherited  the  golden  wealth  of 
his  music,  parting  gifts,  priceless,  invaluable,  for  our 
future  encouragement  and  advancement.  He  showed 
the  way  to  a  goal,  he  trod  the  lonely  rough  path  of  a 
pioneer,  that  discovery  of  treasure  by  future  seekers 
might    be    made    with    fewer    difficulties. 


On  Jan  23,  1908,  MacDowell's  tired  spirit  left  this 
world.  All  that  is  mortal  of  him  rests,  in  the  utmost 
simplicity  befitting  the  tastes  of  his  life,  in  a  grave 
situated  upon  a  sloping  hill  belonging  to  his  deserted 
farm.  A  mound  in  the  center  of  a  grass  covered  lot, 
surrounded  by  a  low  stone  wall  grown  over  with  vines 
and  flowers,  marks  his  burial  place.  A  huge  boulder, 
roughly  hewn  in  nature's  own  design,  is  the  only  monu- 
ment, its  solidity  and  lack  of  artificiality  a  fitting  symbol. 
Back  of  it  rise  two  or  three  trees,  their  whispering  tops 
gracefully  swaying  to  the  rhythm  of  the  gentle  breeze  and 
breathing  out  to  all  who  can  hear,  the  message  of  hope 
and  love  left  us  by  the  great  soul  of  MacDowell,  whose 
body  they  are  now  so  protectingly  guarding.  It  is  a 
lovely  spot,  and  overlooks  the  fertile  farms  and  home 
like  dwellings  of  the  village  of  Peterborough.  The 
gaze  travels  from  them  over  tops  of  tall  pines  to  far 
ofif  ridges  of  gently  rolling  mountains,  the  outline  of 
their  summits  silhoutted  against  a  wondrous  iridescent 
sky.    The  vista  is  far  reaching  and  one  of  great  beauty. 

With  eyes  turned  towards  the  golden  west,  as  his 
so  often  were,  to  face  the  setting  sun;  with  heart  filled 
with  grateful  reverence,  unspeakable  and  inexpressible, 
these  words  come  to  the  mind,  words  dedicated  to 
brave  heroes  like  him,  who  have  made  the  sacrifice 
supreme  for  a  faith,  an  ideal. 

"For  your  tomorrow,  they  have  given  their  today. 
Their  today,  their  everything,  can  you  ever  hope 
repay?" — L.  Isaacs. 

The  Fates  spun  for  MacDowell  a  marvelous  pattern, 
in  design  inimitable.  So  swiftly  did  they  accomplish 
an  almost  incredible  task,  the  time  seemed  to  come 
all  too  quickly  for  the  cloth  to  be  pulled  off  and  cut  from 
the  loom.  They  had  spun  in  the  morn  of  hope,  in  the 
heart  of  noon,  in  the  calm  of  evening,  and  their  work 

—68— 


had  been  well  done.  But  the  cloth  was  not  quite 
finished.  It  had  been  woven  in  fragments,  had  been 
pieced  together  in  blocks  of  the  past  and  present.  Those 
belonging  to  the  future  were  missing,  were  awaiting 
"the  loom  of  time." 

For  every  mortal  is  conceived  and  drawn  up  a 
perfect  design,  but  its  completeness  is  known  only 
to  the  All-Master  Artist.  He  alone  knows  its  entirety 
and  can  finish  it;  He  only  can  say  "It  is  good  and  for  the 
best;"  He  only  knows  the  reason  why. 

"A  Weaver  sits  at  the  loom  of  time, 
And  weaves  a  cloth  of  wondrous  art, 

Fringed  with  the  jewels  of  faith  and  hope, 
Ne'er  bought  nor  sold  in  earthly  mart. 

The  Weaver  is  God,  and  the  cloth  He  weaves 
Is  the  golden  cloth  of  the  human  heart." 

— Carrigan. 

Do  Dreams  live!  V/hat  else  in  all  this  wide  world 
does  live  but  Dreams ! 


— G9- 


Interpretative  Programs 

OF 

AND 

Bta  MuBxc 

FOR 

Music  Clubs,  Drama  Clubs,  General  Clubs, 
High  School  Music  Students,  etc. 

For  particulars  address 

MRS.  GRAHAM  F.  PUTNAM 

600  So.  Rampart  Street 

Los  Angeles,  Cal. 


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